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THE 




ART OF BEING HAPPY: 



FROM THE FRENCH OF DROZ, 



'SUR L'ART D'ETRE HEUREUSE;' 



IN A SERIES OF LETTERS 



. 1 \'^ 



A FATHER TO HIS CHILDREN: 



OBSERVATIONS AND COMMENTS 



BY TIMOTHY FLINT. 



■sua si bonanorint.' — Virgil. 



\B7\ 



:X-- 



■■^^WAS^'^'^' 



BOSTON: 
PUBLISHED BY CARTER AND HENDEE. 

1832. 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1832, 

By Carter and Hendee, 
ti the Cleik's office of the District Court of Massachusetts. 



ADVERTISEMENT 



The text, upon which the following observations and 
comments are based, does not assume to be a literal trans- 
lation of the celebrated work of Droz. The original is 
strongly idiomatic ; and the author has carried an un- 
common talent of being laconic sometimes to the point of 
obscurity. I have often found it impossible to convey to 
the English reader a sentiment, perfectly obvious in the 
original, in as few words as are there used. The French, 
in its more numerous articles, more allowable and bold 
personifications, and arbitrary use of gender, has, in the 
hand of certain writers, this advantage over our lan- 
guage. When the doctrines of the book are compared 
one with the other, and each with the general bearing of 
the work, the inculcation, namely, of the truth that virtue 
is happiness, there will be found nothing immoral or re- 
prehensible in it. The author, on the whole, leans to 
the Epicurean philosophy. Unfavorable, though erroneous 
impressions have been very generally entertained of that 
philosophy. In deference to that opinion, I have altogeth- 
er omitted the few sentences, which seemed appropriate to 
some of the dogmas of the Epicureans. Nothing can be 



IV 



more remote from their alleged impiety, than the general 
tenor of this work. One of its most eloquent and im- 
pressive chapters is that upon religion. There is a dis- 
tinct class in France, both numerous and important, the 
literatures. Many of the remarks of the author, bearing 
chiefly upon that class, seemed inapplicable, or unintelligi- 
ble in our country, where there is no such class to ad- 
dress. I have passed over many passages and parts of 
chapters, which had an almost exclusive reference to per- 
sons in that walk in life. I have added members of sen- 
tences, and even whole sentences to the text, where such 
additions seemed necessary to develope the doctrine j 
English reader. 

In a word, I do not offer the text, as an exact translation, 
but as the only treatise within the compass of my reading, 
which has discussed the pursuit of happiness, as a science 
or an art ; and as one which has advanced more elo- 
quent and impressive sentiments upon the subject, than 
I have elsewhere met. With the slight alterations, which 
I have made, I have found this book to meet my own 
thoughts ; and I have laid out of the text all phrases and 
passages, which spoke otherwise. I have availed myself 
of the words of another, because they have expressed my 
own views better than I could have hoped to express 
them myself. This explanation will be my reply to all 
remarks, touching mistranslation, or liberties taken with 
the author. 



ERRATA. 

Page 44, last line, dele the 5. 

Page 111, 5th line from bottom, dele 29. 

Page 121, end of second paragraph, dele 32. 

Page 149, 2d line from top, dele 51. 

Page'200j for Note 5, page 44, read 6, page 45, 



CONTENTS 



P.'.ge. 

LETTER I. 
Introduction, 1 

LETTER IL 
The Physical, Organic and Moral Laws, ... 8 

LETTER m. 
The same subject continued, 25 

LETTER IV. 
General Views of the subject, 39 

LETTER V. 
Our Desires, 45 

LETTER VL 
Tranquillity of Mind, 51 

LETTER VII. 

Of Misfortune, 58 

LETTER VIII. 
Of Independence, €17 

LETTER IX, 

Of Health, : . 73 

LETTER X. 
Of Competence, 83 

LETTER XL 
Of Opinion, and the Affection of Men, ... 90 



Vlll 

Page. 

LETTER XII. 
Of the Sentiment Men ought to Inspire, ... 95 

LETTER XIIL 
Of some of the Virtues, 100 

LETTER XIV. 

Of Marriage, JC8 

LETTER XV. 
Of Children, 117 

LETTER XVI. 
Of Friendship, 124 

LETTER XVII. 
The Pleasures of the Senses, 129 

LETTER XVin. 
The Pleasures of the Heart, 134 

LETTER XIX. 
The Pleasures of the Understanding, ... 139 

LETTER XX. 
The Pleasures of the Imagination, .... 144 

LETTER XXL 
Melancholy, .148 

LETTER XXII. 
Religious Sentiments, 154 

LETTER XXIII. 
Of the Rapidity of Life, 163 

LETTER XXIV. 
On Death, 170 

LETTER XXV. 
Conclusion of Btoz ^ SiirVAji d^ Eire Heureuse,'' . 176 

LETTER XXVI. 
The Choice of a Profession, 182 

Notes, 193-313 



THE 



ART OF BEING HAPPY 



LETTER I 



The following thoughts, my dear children, are {hose 
of an afl'ectionate father going out of life, to those he 
most loves, who are coming forward in it. I am per- 
fectly aware, that nothing but time can impart all the 
dear bought instruction of experience. Upon innum.er- 
able questions, that relate to life, you will receive effi- 
cient teaching only by reaping the fruit of your own 
errors. But one who has preceded you on the journey, 
who has listened to the impressive oracles of years, may 
impart some aid if you will listen with docility, to enable 
you to anticipate the lessons of experimental acquaint- 
ance with the world. In what I am about to write, I 
trust I may bring you this aid. As you embark on 
the uncertain voyage, I cannot but hope, that your filial 
piety will incline you to a frequent recurrence to the pa- 
rental chart. You are aware, that circumstances have 
brought me into contact with all conditions, and into a 
view of all the aspects of life. I ought, therefore, to be 
qualified to impart useful lessons upon the evils and 
dangers of inexperience. You, at least, will Dot see 
1 



assumption in such lessons, when they result from the 
remembrance of my own errors. You may consider 
what follows, whether it be my own remarks, or what 
I have adopted from others, as the gleanings of ex- 
perimental instruction, from what 1 have myself seen, 
felt, suffered, or enjoyed ; and as my comments upon 
the influence, which my election of alternatives has had, 
upon the amount of my own enjoyment or suffering. 

You will find enough who are ready to inspire you 
with indifference or disdain for such counsels. They 
will indolently, and yet confidently, assure you, that the 
theoretical discussion of the pursuit of happiness is, of 
all visionary investigations, the most profitless and inap- 
plicable ; that lecture, write, preach as we may, the fu- 
ture will be, perhaps ought to be, as the past ; that the 
world is always growing older, without ever growing 
wiser; and that men are evidently no more successful 
in their search after happiness now, than in the remotest 
periods of recorded historj^. They will affirm that man 
has always been the sport of accident, the slave of his 
passions, the creature of circumstances ; that it is useless 
to reason, vain to consult rules, imbecile to surrender 
independence, to follow the guidance of those who as- 
sume to be wise, or receive instruction from those who 
have been taught by years. They will allege the utter 
inefficacy of the lights of reason, philosophy, and 
religion, judging from the little illumination, which they 
have hitherto shed upon the paths of life. On the same 
ground, and from the same reasonings, they might de- 
claim against every attempt, in every form to render the 
world wiser and happier. With equal propriety they 
might say, ^ close the pulpit, silence the press, cease from 



parental discipline, moral suasion, and the training of 
education. Do what you will, the world will go on as 
before.' Who does not see the absurdity of such lan- 
guage ? Because we cannot do everything, shall we do 
nothing ? Because the million float towards the invisi- 
ble future without any pole star, or guided only by the 
presumpdon of general opinion, is it proof conclusive 
that none have been rendered happier in consequence 
of having followed wiser guidance, and pursued happi- 
ness by system ? 

Such is the practical creed of the great mass, with 
whom you will be associated in life. I, on the contrary, 
tliink entirely with the French philosopher, whose pre- 
cepts you are about to read, that this general persua- 
sion is palpably false and fatal ; that much suffering may 
be avoided, and much enjoyment obtained by following 
rules, and pursuing happiness by system ; that I have 
had the fortune to meet with numbers, who were visible 
proofs that men may learn how to be happy. I am 
confident that the far greater portion of human suflering 
is of our own procuring, the result of ignorance and 
mistaken views, and that it is a superfluous and unne- 
cessary mixture of bitterness in the cup of human life. 
I firmly believe that the greater number of deaths, in- 
stead of being the result of specific diseases, to which 
they are attributed, are really caused by a series of 
imperceptible malign influences, springing from corroding 
cares, griefs, and disappointments. To say, that more 
than half of the human race die of sorrow, and a bro- 
ken heart, or in some way fall victims to their passions, 
may seem like advancing a revolting doctrine; but it is, 
nevertheless, in my mind, a simple truth. 



We do not see the operations of grief upon some 
one or all the countless frail and delicate constituents of 
human life. But if physiology could look through the 
infinitely complicated web of our structure with the 
power of the solar microscope, it would behold every 
chagrin searing some nerve, paralyzing the action of 
some organ, or closing some capillary ; and that 
every sigh draws its drop of life blood from the heart. 
Nature is slow in resenting her injuries ; but the 
memory of them is indelibly impressed, and treasured 
up for a late, but certain revenge. Nervousness, 
lowness of spirits, headache, and all the countless 
train of morbid and deranged corporeal and mental 
action, are, at once, the cause and the effect of sorrow 
and anxiety, increased by a constant series of action 
and reaction. Thought and care become impressed 
upon the brow. The bland essence of cheerfulness 
evaporates. The head becomes shorn of its locks; and 
the frosts of winter gather on the temples. These con- 
current influences silently sap the stamina of life ; until, 
aided by some adventitious circumstance, which we call 
cold, fe\'er, epidemic, dyspepsia — death lays his hand 
upon the frame that by the sorrows and cares of life 
was prepared for his dread office. The bills of mortal- 
ity assign a name to the mortal disease different from 
the true one. 

Cheerfulness and equanimity are about the only- 
traits that have invariably marked the life of those 
who have lived to extreme old age. Nothing is 
more clearly settled by experience, than that grief acts 
as a slow poison, not only in the immediate infliction of 
pain, but in gradually impairing the powers of life, and 
in subtracting from the sum of our days. 



If, then, by any process of instruction, discipline and 
mental force, we can influence our circumstances, ban- 
ish grief and create cheerfulness, we can, in the same 
degree, reduce rules, for the pursuit of happiness, to a 
system ; and make that system a matter of science. 
Can we not do this ? The very million who deride the 
idea of seeking for enjoyment through the medium of 
instruction, unconsciously exercise the power in question 
to a certain extent — though not to the extent, of which 
they are capable. All those wise individuals, Vv^ho have 
travelled with equanimity and cheerfulness through the 
diversified scenes of life, making the most of its good, 
and the least of its evils, bear a general testimony to 
the truth of this fact. We find in them a conviction 
that they had such power, and a force of character 
that enabled them to act according to their convictions. 

No person deserves the name of a philosopher, who 
is not wise in relation to the great purpose of life. In the 
same proportion, then, as I convince you, that by our own 
voluntary, physical and mental discipline, we can act 
upon circumstances, and influence our temperament, and 
thus bear directly upon our happiness, I shall be able to 
stir up your powers, and call forth your energy of char- 
acter, to apply that discipline in your own case. In 
the same proportion I shall be instrumental in training 
you to the highest exercise of your reason, and the at- 
tainment of true philosophy. 

The elements upon which you are to operate, are 
your circumstances, habits, and modes of thinking and 
acting. The philosopher of circumstances ""' denies that 

* E. g. Robert Owen and others of the atheistical school. 
1* 



you can act upon these. But, by his unwearied efforts 
to propagate his system, he proves, that he does not 
himself act upon his avowed convictions. The impulse 
of all our actions from birth to death, the spring of all 
our movements is a conviction, that we can alter and im- 
prove our condition. We have a consciousness stronger 
than our reason, that we can control our circumstances. 
We can change our regimen and habits ; and by pa- 
tience and perseverance, even our temperament. Every 
one can cite innumerable and most melancholy instances 
of those who have done it for evil. The habit of in- 
dulging in opium, tobacco, ardent spirits, or any of the 
pernicious narcotics, soon reduces the physical and 
mental constitution to that temperament, in which these 
stimulants are felt to be necessary. A correspond- 
ing change is produced in the mind and disposition. 
The frequent and regular use of medicine, though it 
may have been w^holly unnecessary at first, finally be- 
comes an inveterate habit. No phenomenon of phy- 
siology is more striking, than the facility with which the 
human constitution immediately commences a conformity 
to whatsoever change of circumstances, as of climate, 
habit, or aliment, we impose upon it. It is a most im- 
pressive proof, that the Creator has formed man capable 
of becoming the creature of all climates and conditions. 
If we may change our temperament both of body and 
mind for evil, as innumiCrable examples prove that we 
may, why not as easily for good ? Our habits certainly 
are under our control; and our modes of thinking, how- 
ever litde the process may have been explained, are, in 
some way, shaped by our voluntary discipline. We have 
high powers of self-command, as every one who has made 



the effort to exercise them, must be conscious. We 
have inexhaustible moral force for self-direction, if we 
will only recognise and exert it. We owe most of our 
disgusts and disappointments, our corroding passions and 
unreasonable desires, our fretfulness, gloom' and self- 
torment, neither to nature nor fate ; but to ourselves, and 
our reckless indifference to those rules, that ought to 
guide our pursuit of happiness. Let a higher educa- 
tion and a truer wisdom disenthral us from our passions, 
and dispel the mists of opinion and silence the authority 
of example. Let us commence the pursuit of happiness 
on the right course, and seek it where alone it is to be 
found. Equanimity and moderation will shed their mild 
radiance upon our enjoyments ; and in our reverses we 
shall summon resignation and force of character ; and, 
according to the sublime ancient maxim, we shall become 
masters of events and of ourselves. 

I am sensible that there will always be a sufficient 
number of those, deemed philosophers, who, notwith- 
standing their rules, have wandered far from their aim. 
Such there will always be, so long as there are stirring 
passions within or hidden dangers around us ; and there 
will be shipwrecks, so long as human cupidity and ambi- 
tion tempt self-confident and unskilful mariners upon the 
fickle and tumultuous bosom of the ocean. But is this 
proof that a disciplined pilot would not be most likely 
to make the voyage in safety, or that the study of navi- 
gation is useless ? 

My affectionate desire is, to draw your attention to 
those moral resources which your Creator has placed at 
your command. How many millions have floated down 
the current in the indolent supineness of inactivity, who, 



8 



had they been aware of their internal means of active 
resistance, would have risen above the pressure of their 
circumstances ! Who can deny, that there is a manifest 
difference, even as things now are, between the moral 
courage of action and endurance, put forth by a disci- 
plined and reflecting mind, I osessing foi-ce of character, 
and the stupid and passive abandonment, with which a 
savage meets pain and death ? 

May you speed on your voyage under the influence 
of the lucida sidera, or, in higher p'lrase, may Provi- 
dence be your guide. 



LETTER II 



THE PHYSICAL, ORGANIC AND MORAL LAWS. 

In relation to this most important subject, read Combe 
on the Constitution of Man, a book, which I consider 
admirable for its broad, philosophic, and just views of 
the laws of the universe, in their bearing upon the con- 
stitution of our physical and moral nature. You are 
not unaware, that 1 had presented you similar views, 
and inculcated the same master principles, long before 
this excellent work was published. Thousands, in all 
ages, have entertained the same extended conceptions 
of the divine plan, and its bearing upon man and all be- 
ings, upon this and all other worlds. But the honor 
belongs to this author, to have given form and system- 
atic arrangement to these views. I have given my 



thoughts upon this subject at the commencement of my 
letters, and have subjoined remarks upon the Christian 
religion at the close, because I deem that M. Djoz, in 
not recurring to these fundamental principles at the begin- 
ning of his work, and in dwelling with so little earnest- 
ness upon the hope of the gospel, as an element of 
happiness, at the close, has left chasms in it which ought 
to be supplied. 

The sect, numerous in my day, in yours, 1 trust, will 
have disappeared, who hold that religion and pliilosophy 
are militant and irreconcilable principles. Such persons 
are accustomed to brand these broad views of Provi- 
dence and moral obligation w^ith the odium of impiety. 
You will hardly need my assurance, that, if i thought 
with them, my right hand should forget its cunning, 
before I would allow anything to escape my pen which 
might have the least tendency to impair in your minds 
the future and eternal sanctions of virtue. I shall 
hereafter enlarge upon my persuasion, that, so far from 
being in opposition, religion and philosophy, when rightly 
understood, will be found resting on the same immutable 
foundation. It is because the misguided friends of 
religion have attempted to sustain them, as separate and 
hostile interests, in my view, that the former has made 
so litde prog ess towards becoming universal. It will 
one day be understood, that whatever wars with 
reason and common sense, is equally hostile to reli- 
gion. The simple and unchangeable trutlis of Chris- 
tianity will be found to violate none of our most obvious 
convictions. Truth will reassume her legitimate reign. 
Piety, religion and morals, our best interests for this life, 
and our surest preparations for a future one, will be 



10 



found exactly conformable to the eternal order of things, 
and the system of the gospel will become universal, 
according to its legitimate claims. True piety, in my 
mind, is equally our duty, our wisdom and happiness. 
To behold God everywhere in his works, to hold com- 
munion with him in a contemplative and admiring spirit, 
to love, and trust him, to find, in the deep and constantly 
present persuasion of his being and attributes, a senti- 
ment of exhaustless cheerfulness and excitement to duty. 
I hold to be the source of the purest and sublimest 
pleasure, that earth can aiibrd. 

True philosophy unfolds tlie design of final causes 
with a calm and humble wisdom. It finds [he Creator 
everywhere, and always acting in wisdom and power. 
It traces the highest benevolence of intention, wdiere the 
first aspect showed no apparent purpose, or one that 
seemed to tend to misery ; offering new inducements to 
learn the first and last lesson of religion, and the 
ukimate attainment of human wisdom — resignation to 
the will of God. In vindicating his ways to men, it 
declares that so long as we do not understand the laws 
of our being and so long as we transgress them, either 
ignorantly, or wilfully and unconsciously, misery to 
ourselves must just as certainly follow as that we can 
neither resist nor circumvent them ; and that the Omnip- 
otent has forged every link of the chain, that connects 
our^own unhappiness with every transgression of the 
laws of our nature. 

We find ourselves making a part of an existing uni- 
verse which nehher ignorance, nor wisdom, doubtina, 
nor confidence can alter. If we know the order, of 
which we are the subjects, and conform to it. we are 



11 



happy. If we ignorantly, or wilfully transgress it, the 
order is in no degree changed, or impeded. It moves 
irresistibly on, and the opposition is crushed. How wis- 
dom and benevolence are reconcilable with the permis- 
sion of ihis ignorance and opposition, in other words, 
why partial evil exists in God's universe, it is not my ob- 
ject to inquire. The inquiry would not only be fruit- 
less, but would in no degree alter the fact, that what we 
call evil does exist. It is enough for us to know, that, 
as far as human research has reached, or can reach, 
the more profoundly we investigate the subject, the more 
clearly are design, wisdom and benevolence discoverable 
Beyond our ken, right reason, guided by humility, would 
infer, that, where we cannot trace the impress of these 
attributes, it is not because they are not discoverable, 
but because our powers are not equal to the discovery. 
If we had a broader vision, and were more fully acquaint- 
ed with the relations of all parts of God's universe, the 
one to the other, and all the reasons of the permanent 
ordinances of his government, we should be able to un- 
derstand the necessity of partial evil to the general good ; 
we should understand, why it rains on the waste ocean, 
when drought consigns whole countries to aridity and 
desolation ; in a word, why ignorance, transgression, 
misery and death have a place in our system. 

All that we now know is, that the natural laws of this 
system are universal, invariable, unbending; that physical 
and moral tendencies are the same all over our world ; 
and we have every reason to believe, over all other worlds. 
Wherever moral beings keep in harmony with these laws, 
there is no instance, in which happiness is not the result. 
Men never enjoy health, vigor, and felicity in disobedi- 



12 



ence to them. The whole infinite contrivance of every- 
thing, above, around, and within us, appears directed to 
certain benevolent issues ; and all the laws of nature are 
in perfect harmony with the whole constitution of man. 

1 shall not enter upon the suhtle controversies of 
moral philosophers, as to the fundamental principle of 
moral obhgation, whether ii be expediency, the nature of 
things, or the will of God ? In my view these are rather 
questions about words, than things. The nature of 
things is a part of the will of God ; and expediency is 
conformity to this unchanging order. An action de- 
rives its moral com})lexion from being conformed to the 
will of God, and the nature of things; and whatever is 
so conformed, is expedient ; consequently all the differ- 
ent foundations of morals, when examiined, are found to 
be precisely the same. 

My notions of morality are, that it is conformity to 
the physical, organic and moral laws of the universe. 
Some will choose to call it expediency ; others, the will 
of God ; and others still, the constitution of things. 
These views, when reduced to their elements, are the 
same, call them by what names we may. We ma) ob- 
viously divide these laws into three classes. The first 
series we call physical laws, or those which act upon the 
material universe, and upon ourselves as a part of that uni- 
verse. The second v/e call organic, or those which regu- 
late the origin, growth, vrell-being and dissolution of organ- 
ized beings. Tlie last, denominated m.oral, act chiefly 
on the intellectual universe. They are founded on our 
relations to the sentient universe and God. 

We infer from analogy, that these laws always have 
been, are, and alwavs will be, inv.iriably the same ; and 



13 



that they prevail alike in every portion of God's universe. 
We so jnclge, because we believe the existing order of 
things to be the wisest and the best. We know that 
the physical laws actually do prevail alike in every part 
of our world, and as far beyond h, as the highest helps 
of astronomy can aid our researches into the depths of 
inrimensity. Is it not probable, that if we could investi- 
gate the system, as far as the utmost stretch of thought, 
we should find no point, where the laws of gravity, light, 
heat and motion do not prevail ; where the sentient beings 
are not restricted to the same moral relations, as in our 
world? Wherever the empire of science has extended, 
we note these laws equally prevalent, in a molecule and 
a world, and from the lowest order of sentient beings 
up to man. The arrangement of the great whole, it 
should seem, must be a single emanation from the same 
wisdom and will, perfectly uniform throughout the whole 
empire. What an impressive motive to study these laws, 
and conform to them, is it, to know, that they are as irre- 
sistible, as the divine power, as universal, as the divine 
presence, as permanent as the divine existence; — that 
there is no evading them, that no art can disconnect mis- 
ery from transgressing them, that no change of place or 
time, that not death, nor any transformation which our 
conscious being can undergo, will, during the revolu- 
tions of eternity, dispense any more with the necessity 
of observing these laws, than during our present transi- 
tory existence in clay ! 

I need not dwell a moment upon the proofs of the 

absolute identity of the physical laws. No one need be 

told, that a ship floats, water descends, heat warms, and 

cold freezes,, and that all physical properties of matter 

2 



14 



are the same over the globe. We shall only show by a 
few palpable examples, that our system is arranged in 
conformity to the organic laws. Every discovery in the 
kingdom of animated nature developesnew instances. 

In the tropical regions, the muscular energy is less, in 
proportion as the natural fertility of the soil is greater. 
In colder latitudes muscular energy is increased ; and 
ruder elements, and a more sterile nature, proportion their 
claims accordingly. In arctic regions no farinaceous food 
ripens. Sojourners in that climate find, that bread and 
vegetable diet do not furnish the requisite nutriment; 
that pure animal food is the only sustenance that will 
there maintain the tone of the system, imparting a de- 
lightful vigor and buoyancy of mind. Strange as it may 
seem, to conform to this necessity, these dreary coun- 
tries abound in infinite numbers and varieties of animals, 
fowls and fishes. The climate favors the drying and 
preserving of animal food, which is thus prepared to sus- 
tain the inhabitants, when nature imprisons the material 
creation in chains of ice, and wraps herself up in her 
mantle of snow. Thus, if we survey the whole globe, 
the food, climate and other circumstances will be found 
accommodated to the inhabitants ; and they, as far as 
they conform to the organic laws, will be found adapted 
to their climate and mode of subsistence. 

In all positions man finds himself called upon, by the 
clear indications of the organic laws, to take that free 
and cheerful exercise, which is calculated to develope 
vigorous muscular, nervous and mental action. The la- 
borer digs, and the hunter chases for subsistence ; but 
finds at the same time health and cheerfulness. The 
penalty of the violation of this organic law by the indul- 



15 



gence of indolence is debility, enfeebled action, both 
bodily and mental, dyspepsia with all its horrid train, and 
finally death. On the other hand, the penalty of over ex- 
ertion, debauchery, intemperance, and excess of every spe- 
cies, comes in other forms of disease and suffering. These 
laws, though not so obviously and palpably so, are as 
invariable and inevitable, as those of attraction, or mag- 
netism ; and yet the great mass of our species, even in 
what we call enlightened and educated countries, do 
not recognise, and obey them It is in vain for them, 
that, from age to age, the same consequences have en- 
sued, as the eternal heralds of the divinity, proclaiming 
to all people, in all languages, that his laws carry their 
sanctions with them. One of our most imperious duties, 
then, is to study these laws, to make ourselves conver- 
sant with their bearing upon our pursuit of happiness, that 
we may conform to them. When we have become ac- 
quainted with their universality and resistless power, we 
shall indulge no puerile hope that we may enjoy the present 
gratification of infringing them, and then evade the ulti- 
mate consequences. We shall as soon calculate to 
change condition with the tenants of the air and the 
waters, as expect to divert any one of them from its on- 
ward course. 

He then is wise, who looks round him with a search- 
ing eye to become fully possessed, without the coloring 
of sophistical wishes and self-deceiving expectation, of 
the actual conditions of his being ; and who, instead of 
imagining, that the unchangeable courses of nature will 
conform to him, his ignorance, interests or passions, shapes 
his course so as to conform to them. He will no more 
expect, for example, that he can indulge his appetites. 



16 



give scope to his passions, and yield himself to the 
seductions of life, and escape without a balance of mis- 
ery in consequence, than he would calculate to throw 
himself unhurt, from a mountain precipice. 

So far as regards himself, he will study the organic 
laws, in reference to their bearing upon his mind, his 
health, his morals, his happiness. He will strive to be 
cheerful ; for he knows that it is a part of the constitu- 
tion of things, that cheerfulness tends to physical and men- 
tal health. He will accustom himself to exercise, and will 
avoid indolence, because he understands that he was 
formed to be an active being, and that he cannot yield to 
his slothful propensities, without forfeiting the delightful 
feeling of energy, and the power to operate upon events, 
instead of being passively borne along by them. He will be 
active, that he may feel conscious power. He will rise 
above the silent and invisible influence of sloth, and will 
exult in a feeling of force and self-command, for the 
same reasons that the eagle loves to soar aloft, and look 
upon the sun ; because a sensation of power, and 
a sublime liberty are enjoyed in the flight. He will 
be temperate in the gratification of his appetites and 
passions, because he is aware, that every excessive indul- 
gence strikes a balance of suflering against him, which 
he must discharge soon, or late ; and helps to forge 
a chain of habit, that will render it more difficult for 
him to resist the next temptation to indulgence. He 
will rise early from sleep, because nature calls him 
to early rising, in all her cheerful voices, in the matin 
song of birds, the balmy morning freshness and elasticity 
of the air, and the renovated cry of joy from the whole 
animal creation. He will do this, because he has early 



17 



heard complaints from all sides of the shortness of lite, 
and because he is sensible, that he who rises every day 
two hours before the common period, will prolong the 
ordinary duration of life by adding six years of the 
pleasantest part of existence. He will rise early, be- 
cause next after the intemperate, no human being offers 
a more unworthy spectacle, than is presented by the 
man, who calls himself rational and immortal, who 
sees before him a greater amount of knowledge, duty 
and happiness, than he could hope to compass in a 
thousand years ; and who yet turns himself indolently 
from side to side, during the hours of the awakening of 
nature, enjoying only the luxury of a savage or a brute, 
in a state of dozing existence httle superior to the 
dreamless sleep of the grave. I test the character of a 
youth of whom I wish to entertain hope, by this crite- 
rion. If he can nobly resist his propensities, if he can 
act from reason against his inclinations, if he can trample 
indolence underfoot, if he can always make the effort to 
show the intellectual in the ascendant over the animal 
being, I note him as one, who will be worthy of emi- 
nence, whether he attain it or not. 

In a word, there is something of dignity and intellect- 
ual grandeur in the aspect of the young, who hve in obe- 
dience to the organic and moral laws, which commands 
at once that undefined, and almost unconscious estima- 
tion and respect, which all minds involuntarily pay to 
true greatness. Such was the image of the poet, when 
he delineated the angel severe in youthful beauty ; and 
such that of the Mantuan, when he compares Neptune 
rebuking and hushing the winds, to a venerable man, 



18 



allaying by bis words of peace, tbe uproar of an infu- 
riated populace. 

Were I to enter into details of your obligations to un- 
derstand and obey these laws, as they relate to the va- 
rious periods, pursuits and duties of life, I should offer 
you a volume, instead of an outline, w^hich, from the ex- 
amples given, your own thoughts can easily fill out. But 
that I may not leave these momentous duties wholly 
untouched, I shall dwell a moment on their bearing upon 
a most important epoch of life, one which, perhaps more 
than any other, gives the color to future years either of 
happiness or misery. 

When the young reach that period, when nature in- 
vokes them to assume the obligations of connubial life, 
this knowledge and conformity will cause them to 
pause, and reflect on what is before them, and will in- 
terdict them from following the inconsiderate throng, in 
entering into that decisive condition, consulting no other 
lights, than a morbid fancy, those impulses which are 
common to all other animals, or sordid calculations of in- 
terest. They are well apprized, that the declamations of 
satire, and the bitter and common jest of all civilized 
people, upon wedded life, have but too much foundation 
in truth. They perceive at a glance, that those who 
with such views take on them the obligations of the con- 
jugal state have no right to hope anything better than 
satiety, ill-humor, monotonous disgusi, and the insup- 
portable imprisonment of two persons, in intimate and 
indissoluble partnership, who find weariness and pen- 
ance in being together, who are reminded, at once 
hy the void in their hearts, and their mutual inability 
to fill it, that they must not only endure the pain 



19 



of being chained together, but feel, that they are thus 
barred from a happier union, partly by shame, partly 
by public opinion, and, more than all, by the obsta- 
cles, wisely thrown by all civilized nations in the way of 
obtaining divorce. There can be no doubt, that the 
common views of the universal unhappiness of the wed- 
ded state in all Christian countries are the result of gross 
exaggeration. Making all allowances for errors from 
this source, language is too feeble, to delineate the count- 
less and unutterable miseries, that, in all time since the 
institution of marriage, as recognised by Christianity, 
have resulted from these incompatible unions, for the sim- 
ple reason, that, in this transaction, of so much more mo- 
ment than almost any other, scarcely one of the parties 
in a thousand, it is believed, takes the least note of it in 
relation to the organic and moral laws. The young and 
the aged, the feeble and the strong, the heahhy and the 
diseased, the beautiful and the deformed, the mild and 
the fierce, the intellectual and the purely animal, the rich 
and the poor, bring their incompatibilities to a common 
stock, add ruinous excesses of temperament together, 
unite under a spell, reckless of the live-long consequen- 
ces involved, and arouse from a short trance to the con- 
scious and sober sadness of waking misery. To them 
the hackneyed declamations against marriage have a 
terrible import. Weariness, discontent, ennui, relieved 
only by the fierceness of domestic discord, and a wretch- 
edness aggravated by the consciousness that there is no 
escape from it, but by death, is the issue of a union con- 
summated under illusive expectations of more than mor- 
tal happiness. How many millions have found this to 
be tjie reality of their youthful dreams ! Yet if this most 



20 



important union is contracted under animal impulses, 
without any regard to moral and intellectual considera- 
tions, without any investigation of the organic and social 
fitness of the case, without inquiry into the compatibility, 
without a mutual understanding of temperament, dispo- 
sitions, and habits ; who cannot -foresee, that the propen- 
sities will soon languish in satiety; that repentance and 
discord and digust and disaffection and loathing, in pro- 
portion to the remembered raptures forever passed away, 
will rudely open the eyes of the parties to their real and 
permanent condition, and that by a law as certain and 
inevitable, as that which propels water down a precipice ! 
And this is not the darkest shade in the picture. By 
the same laws children are born with the doubled excess 
of the temperaments of their parents ; or puny, unde- 
veloped and feeble, or racked by all the fiercer passions 
of our nature. Opening their eyes in this scene, which 
the guilty thoughtlessness of successive generations has 
rendered little better than a vast lazar house, evil ex- 
ample, gloom, unregulated tempers, repining and mise- 
ry are their first and last spectacles. They advance 
nto life to repeat the errors of their parents, to make 
common stock of their misery anew, to multiply the num- 
ber of the unhappy, or perhaps worse, to tenant hospitals, 
and the receptacles cf human ignorance and misery. 

Can any question be imagined in life, in regard to 
which you ought so deliberately to pause, investigate and 
weigh all the bearings of the case ? And yet can any other 
important transaction be named, upon which, in this view, 
so little thought is bestowed, and which is entered into 
with such reckless blindness to consequences? He, who 
determines to respect the laws of his being, will study his 



31 



own temperament, and that of the other party, and weigh 
the excesses and defects, as one convinced by the gen- 
eral analogy of animated nature, that the physical and 
mental character, the constitutional and moral tempera- 
ment of the offspring, in the ordinary course of things, 
will be a compound of that of the parents. If he find 
himself subject to any peculiar corporeal infirmity, he- 
reditary tendency to disease, overbearing propensities to- 
wards indulgence, or excess, unbalanced passions, or 
morbid mental obliquity, he will be studiously solicitous, 
that the other party shall not be laboring under similar 
disqualifications. I may not follow out the subordinate 
details. Your thoughts cannot but suggest innumerable 
considerations, that I pass in silence. Will any moral 
being, capable of conscieniious views of the ultimate bear- 
ing of his actions, dare to treat this subject, all mo- 
mentous as it is, with unphilosophic levity and ridicule } 
Will any one say, that such discussions ought to be pre- 
termitted by a parent? I affirm, that such are not my 
notions of the obligations of decorum and propriety. 
The world has been too long peopled with mere animals 
bound by the laws, and doomed to the responsibilities of 
rationality, and yet acting like the orders below them, 
without a capacity for finding their happiness. If, being 
men, and inheriting either the privileges, or the doom of 
men, we will choose to consider ourselves merely as 
animals, shall we dare to arraign Providence, or fill the 
world with murmurs, if we enjoy not the peculiar plea- 
sures of either race, and are subject to the miseries of 
both? Wlien you are aware that such considerations 
must affect not only your own happiness, or misery, but 
that of your offspring, a whole coming generation, and 



22 



the hopes of the regeneration and improvement of a 
world, you will be sensible, that silence in such a dis- 
cussion would be guilty pride. I perfectly coincide with 
the conclusions of Combe upon this subject, and tran- 
scribe for your benefit an admirable exposition of my 
views from the notes appended to his book on the Con- 
stitution of Man. 

' It is a very common error, not only among philoso- 
phers, but among practical men, to imagine that the /eeZ- 
ings of the mind are communicated to it through the 
medium of the intellect; and, in pardcular, that if do 
indelicate objects reach the eyes, or expressions pene- 
trate the ears, perfect purity will necessarily reign with- 
in the soul ; and, carrying this mistake into pracUce, they 
are prone to object to all discussion of the subjects treat- 
ed of under the ' Organic Laws,' in works designed for 
general use. But their principle of reasoning is falla- 
cious, and the practical result has been highly detrimen- 
tal to society. The feelings have existence and acdvity 
distinct from the intellect; they spur it on to obtain their 
own gratification ; and it may become either their slave 
or guide, according as it is enlightened concerning their 
constitution and objects, and the laws of nature to which 
they are subjected. The most profound philosophers 
have inculcated this doctrine ; and, by phrenological ob- 
servation, it is demonstrably established. The organs 
of the feelings are disdnct from those of the intellectual 
faculties ; they are larger ; and, as each faculty, ccdieris 
paribus, acts with a power proportionate to the size of 
its organ, the feelings are obviously the active or impel- 
ling powers. The cerebellum, or organ of Amativeness, 
is the largest of the whole mental organs ; and, being 



23 



endowed with natural activity, it fills the mind spontane- 
ously with emotions and suggestions which may be di- 
rected, controlled and resisted, in outward manifestation, 
by intellect and moral sentiment, but which cannot be 
prevented from arising nor eradicated after they exist. 
The whole question, therefore, resolves itself into this. 
Whether it is most beneficial to enlighten and direct that 
feeling, or (under the influence of an error in philosophy, 
and false delicacy founded on it), to permit it to riot in all 
the fierceness of a blind animal instinct, withdrawn from 
the eye of reason, but not thereby deprived of its vehe- 
mence and importunity. The former course appears to 
me to be the only one consisten twith reason and moral- 
ity ; and I have adopted it in reliance on the good sense 
of my readers, that they will at once discriminate be- 
tween practical instruction concerning this feeling, ad- 
dressed to the intellect, and lascivious representations 
addressed to the mere propensity itself; with the latter 
of which the enemies of all improvement may attempt to 
confound my observations. Every function of the mind 
and body is instituted by the Creator ; all may be abused ; 
and it is impossible regularly to avoid abuse of them, 
except by being instructed in their nature, objects, and 
relations. This instruction ought to be addressed ex- 
clusively to the intellect; and when it is so, it is science 
of the most beneficial description. The propriety, nay, 
necessity, of acting on this principle, becomes more and 
more apparent, when it is considered that the discussions 
of the text suggest only intellectual ideas to individuals 
in whom the feeling in question is naturally weak, and 
that such minds perceive no indelicacy in knowledg-^ 
which is calculated to be useful ; while, on the other 



24 



hand, persons in whom the feeling is naturally strong, 
are precisely those who stand in need of direction, and 
to whom, of all others, instruction is the most necessary.' 
No art in these days is better understood, by those 
who have found their interest in investigating the sub- 
ject, than that of improving the races of the lower ani- 
mals. Every species, upon which the effort has been 
made, has been found perfectly subservient to the art. 
The desirable forms and qualities are selected, and the 
proper means of improvement applied. The wished 
result is not obtained to its full extent in the first genera- 
tion ; but a uniform approximation commences; and 
every successive amelioration brings the animal nearer 
to the requisite standard. The whole art is founded on 
observation of the organic laws of the races, and the 
general fact, that the instincts, qualities, temperament, 
form and color of the animals are hereditary, and trans- 
missible. These are truths so well known, that the gra- 
zier, and the shepherd apply them constantly in rearing 
their domestic animals. Shall they be disregarded, 
when it becomes known, that they bear equally upon the 
improvement of man, next in dignity to angels ? Shall 
these considerations rear a nobler race of animals, and, 
by overlooking them, shall man alone be consigned to 
degradation ? 



25 



LETTER III. 

THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED. 

I PROCEED to examples and developments of the doc- 
trine, chiefly insisted upon in the former letter. I draw 
them chiefly from Mr Combe, premising, that they ex- 
actly coincide with views which you cannot but remem- 
ber to have heard me advance, before I had read his 
book on the constitution of man. It is a law of the animal 
creation, that not only the natural but even the acquired 
qualiues are transmitted by parents to their offspring ; 
and man, as an organized being, is subject to laws similar 
to those which govern the organization of the lower an- 
imals. ' Children,' says Dr Pritchard, ' resemble in 
feature and constitution both parents ; but I think more 
generally the father.' Changes produced by external 
causes in the constitution and appearance of the individ- 
ual are temporary ; and, in general, acquired char- 
acters are transient, terminating with the individual, and 
having no influence on the progeny. The mental devel- 
opment of the Circassian race is known to be of the 
highest order. The nobles of Persia are children of 
Circassian mothers, and they are remarkable, in that 
country, for their mental and corporeal superiority over 
the other classes. Every one acquainted with the 
condition of our southern slaves, well understands the 
obvious fact, that the mulattoes are much superior, in 
quickness and capability of acquiring and retaining know- 
ledge, to the negroes. The Indian half-breeds are re- 
markable for the immediate ascendency, \\\\\c\\ they ac- 
3 



26 



quire in their tribes over the full-blooded Indians. In 
oriental India, the intermarriages of the Hindoos with 
Europeans have produced an intermediate race much 
superior to the natives, and destined, it is already predict- 
ed, to be the future sovereigns of India. In fact, physi- 
ology has deduced no conclusion more certain, than 
that, in ordinary cases, the temperament and intellect of 
the children are a compound of that of their parents. 
Of this I might produce innumerable instances from his- 
tory of the Alexanders, Cssars, and Antonines, the dis- 
tinguished great and wise, of ancient and modern times ; 
and equally, in the opposite direction, in the Neros'-and 
Caligulas, ihe depraved and abandoned of all ages and 
countries, where observation has been able to trace their 
parentage. 

One of the most fertile sources of human misery, then, 
arises from persons uniting in marriage, whose tempers, 
talents and dispositions do not harmonize. If it be true 
that natural talents and dispositions are connected by the 
Creator with particular constitutions of the parents, it is 
obviously one of his institutions, that these constitutions 
should be most seriously taken into the calculation in form- 
ing a compact for life. The Creator, having formed such 
ordinances in the unchangeable arrangements of nature, 
as to confer happiness, when they are discovered and ob- 
served, and misery, when they are unknown or unob- 
served, it is obviously our best wisdom to investigate and 
respect them. If individuals, after this truth reaches 
their conviction should go on, in imitation of the common 
example, to form reckless connexions, which can only 
eventuate in sorrow, it is obvious that they must do so 
either from contempt of the effects of this influence upon 



27 



the happiness of domestic life, and a secret belief, that 
they may in some way evade its consequences, or from 
the predominance of avarice, or some other animal feel- 
ing, precluding them from yielding obedience to what 
they see to be an institut"on of the Creator. 

At the first aspect of this subject three alternatives are 
presented, one of which, it should seem., must have a 
determining power upon the offspring. Either, in the 
first place, the corporeal and mental constitution, which 
the parents themselves inherit at birth, are transmitted 
so absolutely, as that the children are exact copies 
of the parents, without variation or modification, sex 
following sex ; or, in the second place, the inherent qual- 
ities of the father and mother combine, and are transmit- 
ted in a modified form to the offspring ; or, thirdly, the 
qualifies of the children are determined jointly by the 
constitution of the parents, and the faculties and temper- 
aments, which predominated in power and energy at 
the particular period, when the organic existence of the 
child commenced. 

If these views are correct, and if a man and woman 
about to marry, have not only their own domestic happi 
ness but that of five or more human beings depending 
on their attention to considerafions essenfially the same 
as the foregoing, how differently ought this contract to 
be viewed from the common aspect, which it presents to 
persons assuming its solemn stipulations ! Yet it is aston- 
ishing, to what extent pecuniary and other minor con- 
siderafions will induce men to investigate and observe 
the natural laws ; and how small an influence moral and 
rational considerations exert upon this most important of 
all earthly connexions. 



28 



I cannot forbear, under this head, quoting entire an- 
other passage from the author, from whom 1 have substan- 
tially drawn many of the foregoing observations. 

* Rules, however, are best taught by examples ; and 
I shall, therefore, proceed to mention some facts that 
have fallen under my own notice, or been communicated 
to me from authentic sources, illustrative of the practical 
consequences of infringing the law of hereditary de- 
scent. 

' A man, aged about fifty, possessed a brain, In which 
the animal, moral, and knowing intellectual organs were 
all strong, but the reflecting weak. He was pious, but 
destitute of education; he married an unhealthy young 
woman, deficient in moral development, but of consid- 
erable force of character ; and several children were 
born. The father and mother were far from being hap- 
py ; and, w^hen the children attained to eighteen or twen- 
ty years of age, they were adepts in every species of 
immorality and profligacy; they picked their father's 
pockets, stole his goods, and got them sold back to him, 
by accomplices, for money, which was spent in betting 
and cock-fighting, drinking, and low debauchery. The 
father was heavily grieved ; but knowing only two re- 
sources, he beat the children severely as long as he was 
able, and prayed for them ; his words were, that " if, af- 
ter that, it pleased the Lord to make vessels of wrath of 
them, the Lord's will must just be done." 1 mention this 
last observation, not in jest, but in great seriousness. It 
was impossible not to pity the unhappy father ; yet who 
that sees the institutions of the Creator to be in them- 
selves wise, but in this instance to have been directly 
violated, will not acknowledge that the bitter pangs of the 



29 



poor old man were the consequences of his own ignorance ; 
and that it was an erroneous view of the divine adminis- 
tration, which led him to overlook his own mistakes, and 
to attribute to the Almighty the purpose of making ves- 
sels of wrath of his children, as the only explanation 
which he could give of their wicked dispositions. Who 
that sees the cause of his misery must not lament that his 
piety should not have been enlightened by philosophy, 
and directed to obedience, in the first instance, to the or- 
ganic institutions of the Creator, as one of the prescrib- 
ed conditions, without observance of which he had no 
title to expect a blessing upon his offspring. 

' In another instance, a man, in whom the animal organs, 
particularly those of Combativeness and Destructiveness, 
were very large, but with a pretty fair moral and intel- 
lectual development, married, against her inclination, a 
young woman, fashionably and showily educated, but 
with a very decided deficiency in Conscientiousness. 
They soon became unhappy, and even blows were said 
to have passed between them, although they belonged to 
the middle rank of life. The mother, in this case, em- 
ployed the children to deceive and plunder the father, 
and, latterly, spent the produce in drink. The sons in- 
herited the deficient morality of the mother, and the ill 
temper of the father. The family fireside became a 
theatre of war, and, before the sons attained a majority, 
the father was glad to get them removed from his house, 
as the only means by which he could feel even his life 
in safety from their violence ; for they had by that time 
retaliated the blows with which he had visited them in 
their younger years ; and he stated that he actually con^ 
sidered his life to be in danger from his own offspring, 
3* 



30 



* In another family, the mother possesses an excellent 

development of the moral and intellectual organs, while, 
in the father, the animal organs predominate in great 
excess. She has been the unhapp)^ victim of ceaseless 
misfortune, originating from the misconduct of her bus- 
band. Some of the children have inherited the father's 
brain, and some the mother's ; and of the sons whose 
heads resembled the father's, several have died through 
mere debauchery and profligacy under thirty years of 
age; whereas, those who resemble the mother are alive 
and little contaminated, even amidst all the disadvanta- 
ges of evil example. 

' On the other hand, I am not acquainted with a single 
instance in which the moral and intellectual organs 
predominated in size, in both father and mother, and 
whose external circumstances also permitted their gen- 
eral activity, in which the whole children did not partake 
of a moral and intellectual character, differing slightly 
in degrees of excellence one from another, but all pre- 
senting the decided predominance of the human over 
the animal faculties. 

' There are well-known examples of the children of 
religious and moral fathers exhibiting dispositions of a 
very inferior description ; but in all of these instances 
that I have been able to observe, there has been a large 
development of the animal organs in the one parent, 
which was just controlled, but not much more, by the 
moral and intellectual powers ; and in the other parent, 
the moral organs did not appear to be in large propor- 
tion. The unfortunate child inherited the large animal 
development of the one, with the defective moral devel- 
opment of the other ; and, in this way, was inferior 



31 



to both. The way to satisfy one's self on this point, 
is to examine the heads of the parents. In all such cases, 
a large base of the brain, which is the region of the 
animal propensities, will very probably be found in one 
or other of them. 

' Another organic law of the animal kingdom deserves 
attention ; viz. that by which marriages betwixt blood 
relations tend decidedly to the deterioration of the phy- 
sical and mental qualities of the offspring. In Spain, kings 
marry their nieces, and, in this countiy, first and second 
cousins marry without scruple ; although every philo- 
sophical physiologist will declare that this is in direct 
opposition to the institutions of nature. This law holds 
also in the vegetable kingdom, " A provision, of a very 
simple kind, is, in sor.ie cases, made to prevent the male 
and female blossoms of the same plant from breeding 
together, this being found to hurt the breed of vegeta- 
bles, just as breeding in and in does the breed of ani- 
mals. It is contrived, that the dust shall be shed by the 
male blossom before the female is ready to be affected 
by it, so that the impregnation must be performed by 
the dust of some other plant, and in this way the breed 
be crossed." ' 

Such considerations, I hope, will induce you to exer- 
cise cautious examination of this subject, if either of you 
should ever be placed in circumstances to contemplate 
assuming the duties of the wedded life. If you do not, 
you will have cast the pursuit of happiness upon the die 
of chance at the very outset of your career. Allow me, 
before I dismiss the book, from which I have already so 
liberally quoted, to extract one passage more, touching 
the application of the natural laws to the practical ar- 
rangements of life. 



32 



* If a system of living and occupation were to be 
framed for human beings, founded on the exposition of 
their nature, which I have now given, it would be some- 
thing like this. 

' 1st. So many hours a day would require to be dedi- 
cated by every individual in health, to the exercise of 
his nervous and muscular systems, in labor calculated to 
give scope to these functions. The reward of obeying 
this requisite of his nature would be health, and a joyous 
animal existence ; the punishment of neglect is disease, 
low spirits and death. 

* 2dly. So many hours a day should be spent in the 
sedulous employment of the knowing and reflecting fac- 
ulties ; in studying the qualities of external objects, and 
their relations ; also the nature of all animated beings, 
and their relations ; not with the view of accumulating 
mere abstract and barren knowledge, but of enjoying the 
positive pleasure of mental activity, and of turning every 
discovery to account, as a means of increasing happi- 
ness, or alleviating misery. The leading object should 
always be to find out the relationship of every object to 
our own nature, organic, animal, moral, and intellectual, 
and to keep that relationship habitually in mind, so as to 
render our acquirements directly gratifying to our vari- 
ous faculties. The reward of this conduct would be an 
incalculably great increase of pleasure, in the very act 
of acquiring knowledge of the real properties of external 
objects, together with a great accession of power in 
reaping ulterior advantages, and in avoiding disagreea- 
ble affections. 

' 3dly. So many hours a day ought to be devoted to the 
cultivation and gratification of our moral sentiments ; 



33 



that is to say, in exercising these in harmony with intel- 
lect, and especially in acquiring the habit of admiring, 
loving, and yielding obedience to the Creator and his 
institutions. This last object is of vast importance. In- 
tellect is barren of practical fruit, however rich it may be 
in knowledge, until it is fired and prompted to act by mor- 
al sentiment. In my view, knowledge by itself is com- 
paratively worthless and impotent, compared with what 
it becomes when vivified by elevated emotions. It is 
not enough that intellect is informed ; the moral faculties 
must simuhaneously cooperate ; yielding obedience to 
jhe precepts which the intellect recognises to be tru&. 
One way of cultivating the sentiments would be for men 
to meet and act together, on the fixed principles which 
I am now endeavoring to unfold, and to exercise on each 
other in mutual instruction, and in united adoration of 
the great and glorious Creator, the several faculties of 
Benevolence, Veneration, Hope, Ideality, Wonder, and 
Justice. The reward of acting in this manner would be 
a communication of direct and intense pleasure to each 
other; fori refer to every individual who has ever had 
the good fortune to pass a day or an hour with a really 
benevolent, pious, honest, and intellectual man, whose 
soul swelled with adoration of his Creator, whose intel- 
lect was replenished with knowledge of his works, and 
whose whole mind was Instinct with sympathy for human 
happiness, whether such a day did not afford him the 
most pure, elevated, and lasting gratification he ever en- 
joyed. Such an exercise, besides, would invigorate the 
whole moral and intellectual powers, and fit them to dis- 
cover and obey the divine institutions.' 



34 



You will study, and obey the moral laws of the uni- 
verse, of which you are a part, because you are moral 
beings, and because obedience to these laws constitutes 
the tie of affinity between you, the higher orders of 
being and the divinity. You will respect them, because 
it is the glory of your nature, that you alone, of all crea- 
tures below, are morally subject to them. Laying out 
of the question their momentous sanctions in the eternal 
future, you must be aware, that the Creator has annex- 
ed pleasure to obeying them, and pain to their violation 
as inevitably, as gravity belongs to matter. One would 
think, it must be enough to determine the conduct of a 
being, who laid claim to the character of rational, to 
know, that no art nor dexterity, that no repentance nor 
return to obedience, can avert the consequences of a 
single violation of these laws ; and that no imaginable 
present good can coimterbalance the future misery, that 
must accrue in consequence. 

In regard, for example, to the practice of the most 
common and every day duties, who can doubt the truth 
of the trite adage, honesty is the best policy ? This is, in 
effect, no more than saying, that the moral laws of the 
universe are constituted upon such principles, as to make 
it every man's interest to obey them. It is as certain, 
that they are so constituted, as that fire will burn, or 
water drown you ; and when you understand this con- 
stitution, it marks the same want of a sane mind to vio- 
late them, as to be unable to keep out of these elements. 
Yet the greater portion of the species do not constantly 
act upon a full belief in this hackneyed maxim. They 
think apparently, that they can in some way obtain the 
imagined advantage of dishonesty and evade the connect- 



35 



ed evil, not aware, that detection and diminished confi- 
dence may be avoided, for once or twice ; but not the 
Joss of self-respect, the pureness and integrity of internal 
principle, the certainty of forging the first link in a chain 
of bad habits, and a thousand painful consequences, 
which it would be easy to enumerate in detail. Almost 
every one deems that he may safely put forth every day 
false compliment, double-dealing, deception on a small 
scale, and little frauds, not cognisable by any law or 
code of honor. In a word, if actions are a test of the 
sincerity of conviction, very few really are convinced 
that honesty is the best policy. 

We hold the man insane who should leap from a high 
building upon the pavement, or attempt to grapple with 
the blind power of the elements. But it is scarcely the 
subject of our remark, that the multitude about us, in 
the most important, as well as the minute concerns of 
life, live in habitual recklessness or violation of the 
organic and moral laws ; and yet w^e certainly know, that 
whoever infringes them is as sure to pay the penalty, as 
he who madly places himself in opposition to the material 
laws. I can never present this astonishing and universal 
blindness in too many forms of repetition, if the effect is 
to bring you to view these two species of folly in the 
same light. 

The reason clearly is, that in too many instances, men 
take no pains to acquaint themselves with these laws, 
and their bearing upon the constitution of man ; or, de- 
ceived by the clamors of the inclinations, and the illusions 
of present pleasure and advantage, when balanced with 
future and remote penalties, they commit the infractions, 
and hope, that between the certain pleasure and the dis- 



36 



tant and contingent pain, they can interpose some evasion, 
and sever the consequences from the fault. The ex- 
pectation ahvays ends, like the alchymist's dream, and 
the projector's perpetual motion. Even in the appre- 
hension of the consequences, the mind is paying the 
penalty of an unquiet conscience, and of an abatement 
of self-confidence, and self-respect, penahies, which 
very few earthly pleasures can compensate. 

When I speak of these unchangeable laws, as ema- 
nations from the divine wisdom and goodness, as trans- 
cripts of the divine immutability, and as being the best 
of all possible arrangements, not to be superseded, or 
turned from their course by the wisest of beings, you 
will not understand me to bear upon the consoling and 
scriptural doctrine of providence. I firmly believe, and 
trust in it ; not, however, in the popular view. It would 
not increase my veneration for the Almighty, to suppose 
that his laws required exceptions and variations, to meet 
particular cases ; nor that they would call for frequent 
suspensions and changes, to provide for contingencies 
not foreseen at the commencement of the mighty move- 
ments. Such are not the grounds of my trust in the 
wisdom and goodness of the Supreme Being. I neither 
desire, nor expect any deviation of laws, as wise and 
good as they can be, in their general operation, to meet 
ray particular wishes, or those of the friends most dear 
to nie. I expect, that none of the powers of nature 
will chnnge for me ; I encourage no insane hopes, that 
things will forego their tendencies to meet my conve- 
niences or pleasures. Prayer is a duty equally comfort- 
ing and elevating ; but my prayers are not, that these 
fixed laws of the divine wisdom may change for me ; 



37 



but that I may understand and conform to them. The 
providence, in which I believe, supposes no exceptions, 
infringements, or violations of the universal plan of the 
divine government. Miracles only seem such to us, 
because we see but a link or two in the endless chain of 
that plan. An ingenious mechanician constructs a 
clock, which will run many years, and only once in the 
whole period strike an alarm bell. It is a miracle to 
those who comprehend not, that it was part of the orig- 
inal plan of the mechanician. May we not with more 
probability adopt the same reasoning, in relation to the 
recorded miracles, as parts of the original plan of the 
Eternal ? 

Piety, established upon a knowledge of these lav^s, 
and a respect for them, and associated with veneration 
for their author, is rational, consistent, firm and manly. 
It seeks, it expects nothing in the puerile presumption, 
that the ordinances of a code, fitted for the whole system 
of the Creator, will be wrested to the wants of an 
insect. In docility and meekness it labors for conformity 
to those ordinances ; in other words, to the divine will. 
It violates no principle, and calls for the exercise of no 
faith, that is repugnant to the dictates of common sense, 
and the teaching of common observation. Piety, 
founded on such views, abides the scrutiny of the 
severest investigation. No vacillation of the mind from 
varying fortunes, no questionings of unbelief, doubt and 
despair, can shake it. It rests firmly on the basis of 
the divine attributes. It holds fast io the golden chain, 
the last link of which is riveted to the throne of the 
Eternal. 

Thus it seems to me indispensable, as a prerequisite 
4 



38 



to the pursuit of happiness, that the inquirer should hold 
large discourse with the physical, organic and moral 
laws ; that he should carefully investigate their whole 
bearing upon his constitution ; that he should trace all 
their influences on him from the first hour, in which he 
opens his eyes on the light, to his departure out of life. 
I insist the more earnestly upon this, because in these 
days the study of the moral relations of things seems to 
me comparatively abandoned. The exact and natural 
sciences are studied, rather, it would seem, as an end,^ 
than a means. Natural philosophy, mathematics and 
astronomy may be highly useful ; but who will compare 
these sciences, in regard to their utility and importance, 
with those, which guide the mind to their author, w~hich 
teach the knowledge of his moral laws, which instruct 
us how to allay the passions, to moderate our expecta- 
tions, and to establish morality on the basis of our regard 
to our own happiness ? 

If, then, you would give yourself to the patient study 
of the natural sciences, that you may gain reputation 
and the ability to be useful, much more earnestly will 
you study regimen, exercise, temperance, moderation, 
cheerfulness, the benefits of a balanced mind, and of a 
wise and philosophic conformity to an order of things, 
not a tittle of which you can change, that you may be 
resigned, useful and happy. All knowledge, which can- 
not be turned to this account, either as relates to your- 
selves, or others, is useless. 

Innumerable counsels, in relation to your habits, your 
pleasures and pursuits, your studies, your tastes and 
modes of conduct, your heau ideal of natural and moral 
beauty, your standard of dignity and worth of character. 



39 



press upon my mind, and all in some way connected 
with the views, which I have just taken. But I shall 
be able to present such of them as I may deem worthy 
to find a place in these letters, perhaps with most pro- 
priety and effect, as suggested in the form of notes* 
appended to the chapters of the essay of M. Droz, a 
paraphrase of which I now offer you. 



LETTER IV. 

GENERAL VIEWS OF THE SUBJECT. 

Man is created to be happy. ^ His desires and the 
wisdom of the Creator concur to prove the assertion. 
Yet the earth resounds with the complaints of the un- 
happy, although they are encompassed with the means 
of enjoyment, of which they appear to know neither 
the value nor the use. They resemble the shipwrecked 
mariner, on a desert isle, surrounded with fruits, of the 
flavors and properties of which he is ignorant, as he is 
doubtful whether they offer aliment or poison. 

I was early impelled to investigate the character and 
motives of the crowd around me, eagerly rushing for- 
ward in pursuit of happiness. I soon noted multitudes 
relinquishing the chase in indolent despondency. They 
afhrmed to me that they no longer believed in the exist- 
ence of happiness. I felt an insatiate craving, and 

* These JVoies will be found at the end of the volume. The 
small numerals, in the text, refer to them. 



40 



saw life through the illusive coloring of youth. Unwil- 
ling to resign my hopes, 1 inquired of others, who seemed 
possessed of greater strength of mind, and more weight 
of character, if they could guide me to the place of 
happiness ? Some answered with an ill-concealed smile 
of derision, and others with bitterness. They declared 
that in their view the pleasures of life were more than 
counterbalanced by its pains. Because they were dis- 
appointed and discouraged, they deemed that their 
superior wisdom had enabled them to strip off the dis- 
guises of life, and contemplate it with sullen resignation. 

I remarked others in high places, whose resdess 
activity and brilliance dazzled the multitude and inspired 
envy. I eagerly asked of them the secret of happiness. 
Too proud and self-satisfied to dissemble, they made 
little effort to conceal their principles. I saw their 
hearts contracted by the vileness of egotism, and de- 
voured with measureless ambition. A faithful scrutiny, 
which penetrated beyond their dazzling exterior, showed 
me the righteous reaction of their principles, and con- 
vinced me that they suffered according to their deserts. 

Weary and disheartened, I left them, and repaired to 
the class of stern and austere moralists. They repre- 
sented the world to me as a melancholy and mysterious 
valley, through which the sojourner passes, groaning en 
his way to the grave. Their doctrines inspired me at 
once v/ith sadness and terror. I soon resumed the elas- 
tic confidence of youth, and replied, ' I will never 
believe that the Author of my being, who has imaged in 
my heart such pure and tranquil pleasures, who has 
rendered man capable of chaste love, and of friendship 
in its sanctity, who has formed us innocent hefoxe we 



41 



could practise virtue, and who has connected the salu- 
tary bitterness of repentance with errors, has unakerably 
willed our misery.' 

Thence I passed to the opposite extreme, and 
accosted a gay and reckless throng, whose deportment 
showed that they had found the object of my pursuit. 
I discovered them to be fickle by character, and vacilla- 
ting from indifference. They had only escaped the 
errors of the moralists, by substituting, in place of their 
austere maxims, enjoyments without any regard to con- 
sequences. I asked them to point me to happiness. 
Without comprehending the import of my question, they 
offered me participation in their pleasures. But I saw 
them prodigal of life, dissipating years in a few days, 
and reserving the remnant of their existence for unavail- 
ing repentance.^ 

In view of so many observations, I abandoned the idea 
of guiding my researches by the counsels of others ; 
and began to inquire for the secret in my own bosom. 
1 heard the multitude around me complaining, in disap- 
pointment and discouragement. I resolved, that I would 
not commence the pursuit of happiness by servilely fol- 
lowing in their beaten path. I determined to reflect, 
and patiently investigate a subject of so much moment. 
I detected at once the error of the common impression, 
that pleasure and happiness are the same. The former, 
fickle and fleeting, assumes forms as various as human 
caprice ; and its most attractive charm is novelty. The 
object which gives it birth today, ceases to please, or 
inspires disgust tomorrow. The perception of happi- 
ness is not thus changeable and transient. It creates 
the consciousness of an existence so tranquil and satis- 
4* 



42 



fying, that the larger we experienc© it, the more we 
desire to prolong its duration. - 

Another mistaken, though common impression is, that 
the more profoundly we reflect, and make the pursuit 
of happiness a study, the less we shall be likely to enjoy. 
This is an error not only in regard to happiness,, but 
even pleasure. If it be innocent and exempt from 
danger, to analyze it, and reason upon it. so far from 
diminishing, prolongs the delight, and renders it higher. 
Without reflection we only skim its surface ;, we do not 
penetrate, and enjoy it. 

Let us observe the [ew, who have acquired the wis* 
dom to enjoy that existence, which the multitude waste,- 
In their festal unions of friendship, let us mark the 
development of their desire to muldply the happy mo- 
ments of life. By what ingenious and pleasant discus- 
sions do they heighten the charms of their condidon ! With 
what delicacy of tact do they analyze their enjoyments, 
to taste tliem with a more prolonged and exquisite 
relish ! With what skill do they discipline themselves 
sometimes to eflace the images of the future, that nothing 
may embitter, or distract their relish of the present ; and 
sometimes to invoke remembrances and hopes, to impart 
to it still brighter embellishments ! 

Contrary to the prevalent impression, I therefore 
deem that, to reflect much upon it, is one of the wisest: 
means in the pursuit of happiness. The first analysis of 
reflection, it is true, dispels the charm with which 
youth invests existence. It forces the conviction upon 
us, that the pleasures of life are less durable, and its 
forms more numerous and prolonged^ than we had an- 
ticipated. The first result of the process is discourage- 



43 



ment. But, as we continue to reflect, objects change 
their aspect a second time. The evils which at the 
first gjance seemed so formidable, lose a portion of their 
terrific semblance ; and the fleeting pleasures of exist- 
ence receive new attractions from their analogy to human 
weakness. 

They mistake, too, who suppose that the art on which 
I write has never been taught. The sages of Greece in- 
vestigated the science of happiness as eloquently and 
profoundly, as they studied the other sciences. They 
wisely held the latter in estimation only so far as thej 
were subservient to the former. In all succeeding ages 
there have arisen a few thinking men, who have regarded 
all their faculties, their advantages of nature and for- 
tune, their studies and acquirements, not as ends in 
themselves, but as means conducive to the right pursuit 
of happiness. 

So long a period has elapsed since this has been a 
subject of investigation, that when the opinion is ad- 
vanced that this pursuit may be successfully conducted 
by system, its rules reduced to an art, and thus become 
assimilated to those of the other arts, most men are 
utterly incredulous.^ No truth, however. Is more sim-^ 
pie. To attain to a knowledge of the rules, it is only 
requisite, as in the other arts, that there should be natural' 
dispositions for the study, favorable circumstances, and 
an assiduous investigation of the precepts. 

The Influence of fortunate disposhions for this study 
is chiefly discernible in men of marked and energetic 
character. Some are endowed by nature with such 
firmness and force of character, that misfortune cannot 
shake them. It slides, if I may so speak, over the sur- 



44 



face of their stoical hearts, and the shock of adversity 
inspires them ahTQOst with a sort of pleasure, calling forth 
the conscious feeling of power and independence for 
resistance. But we observe the greater number shrink- 
ing from affliction, and even images of sadness, enjoying 
the present without apparent consciousness, and forget- 
ting the past without regret. Always fickle and frivo- 
lous, they evade suffering by recklessness and gayety. 
The most perfect organization for happiness^ imparts 
at the same time great force to resist the pains of life, 
and keen sensibility to enjoy its pleasures. I am aware 
that great energy and quick sensibility are generally 
supposed to be incompatible qualides ; I have, never- 
theless, often seen them united. I w^ould lay down 
precepts, by which to obtain the combination. By a 
more perfect education, it is hoped that, in the ages to 
come, this union may become general. 

Perhaps some will ask, if he who thus assumes to 
teach the art of happiness has himself learned to be 
constantly happy ? Endowed with a moderate share of 
philosophy, and aided by favorable circumstances, 1 have 
thus far found the pleasures of life greatly overbalancing 
its pains. But VN^ho can hope felicity without alloy ? I 
would not conceal that I have had my share of inquie- 
tudes and regrets ; and I have sometimes forgotten my 
principles. 1 resemble the pilot, who gives lessons 
upon his art after more than one shipwreck.^ 



45 
LETTER V. 

OUR DESIRES. 

Whence are our most common sufferings ? From 
desires which surpass our ability to satisfy them. The an- 
cients relate, that Oromazes appeared to Usbeck, the 
virtuous, and said, ' form a wish, and 1 will grant it.' 
' Source of light,' replied the sage, ' I only wish to limit 
my desires by those things, which nature has rendered 
mdispensable.'^ 

Let us not suppose, however, that a negative happi- 
ness, a condition exempt from suffering, is the most 
fortunate condition to which we may aspire. They 
who contend for this gloomy system, have but poorly 
studied the nature of man. If he errs in desiring positive 
enjoyments, if his highest aim ought to be, to live free 
from pain, the caves of the forest conceal those happy 
beings whom we ought to choose for our models. 

Bounded by the present, animals sleep, eat, procreate, 
live without inquietude, and die without regret : and 
this is the perfection of negative happiness. Man, it is 
true, loses himself in vain projects. His long remem- 
brances, his keen foresight create him suffering in the 
past and the future. His imagination brings forth er- 
rors, his liberty, crimes. But the abuse of his faculties 
does not disprove their excellence. Let him consecrate 
to directing them aright, that time which he has hitherto 
lost in mourning over their aberrations, and he will 
have reason to be grateful to the Creator, for having 



46 



given him the most exalted rank among sublunary 
beings. If, on the other hand, he chooses to aban- 
don that rank, of which he ought to be proud, he 
will degrade his immortal nature at his own cost ; and 
will only add to his other evils the shame of wishing to 
render himself vile. 

Let us examine those animals, the instincts of which 
have the nearest relation to intelligence. Not one of 
them takes possession of the paternal heritage, increases 
it, and transmits it to posterity. Man alone does this, im- 
proves his condition and his kind, and in this is essentially 
distinct from all other beings below. From the Eternal 
to him, and from him to animals the chain is twice 
broken. 

For man, the absence of suffering and a negative hap- 
piness are not sufficient. His noble faculties refuse the 
repose of indifference. Created to aspire to w^hatever 
may be an element of enjoyment, let him cherish his 
desires, and let them indicate to him the path of happi- 
ness ; too fortunate, if they do not entice him towards 
objects, w^iich retire in proportion as he struggles to 
attain them, and towards those imaginary joys, of which 
the deceitful possession is more fertile in regrets than 
in pleasures. 

Far from being the austere censor of desires, I admit, 
that they often j)roduce charming illusions. What loveli- 
ness have they not spread over our spring of life ! Our 
imagination at that time, as brilliant and as vivid as our 
age, embellished the whole universe, and every position in 
which our lot might one day place us. We were oc- 
cupied with errors ; but they were happy errors : and to 
desire was to enjoy. 



47 



Those enchanting dreams, which hold such a delight- 
ful place in the life of every man, whose imagination is 
gay and creative, spring from our desires. Ingenious 
fictions ! Prolific visions ! While ye cradle us, we pos- 
sess the object of our magic reveries. Real possession 
may -be less fugitive. But may it not also vanish like a 
dream ? 

Doubtless there are dangers blended with these seduc- 
tive imaginings, in leaving the region of illusion, the 
greater part of men look with regret upon the abodes of 
reality, in which they must henceforward dwell. Let 
us not share their gloomy weakness. Let us learn to 
enjoy the moments of error, and perpetuate and renew 
them by remembrance. Children, only, are allowed to 
weep, when the waking moment dispels the toys, of 
which a dream had given them possession. 

We give ourselves up to illusions without danger, if 
we have formed our reason ; if we wisely think that the 
situation where our lot has placed us may have ad- 
vantages which no other could offer. Imagination em- 
bellishes some hours without troubling any. Prompt to 
yield to the delightful visions, there are few of which I 
have not contemplated the charm. In seeing them van- 
ish like a fleeting dream, I look round on my vvife and 
children, and believe tliat I am remembered by a few 
friends. 1 open my heart to the pleasures of my retreat, 
which, though simple, are ever new. As the gilded 
creations of imagination disappear, I smile at my creative 
occupation, and console myself with the consciousness, 
that fancy can paint nothing brighter or more satisfying, 
than these my realities."^ 

But let me hasten to make an important distinction. 



48 



to prevent the semblance of contradiction. Let me 
discriminate those fleeting desires, which amuse, or de- 
lude us for a moment, from those deep cravings, which, 
directing all our faculties tow^ards a given end, necessarily 
exercise a strong influence upon life. It is time to con- 
template the latter, and to suggest more grave reflections. 
While the scope of our faculties is limited to narrow 
bounds, our desires run out into infinity. From this 
fact result two reflections — the one afilicting, that the 
multitude are miserable, because it is easier to form, 
than to obtain our wishes ; the other consoling, that 
they might be happy, since every one can regulate his 
desires. 

Reduced to the necessity to realize, or restrain them, 
which course does wisdom indicate ? Will ambition con- 
duct us to repose ? ^ He who chases its phantoms, re- 
sembles the child who imagines that he shall be able 
to grasp the rainbow, which Spans the mountain in the 
distance. But ii'om mountain to mountain, a new hori- 
zon spreads before his eyes. But the courage and 
perseverance requisite to regulate our desires, may in- 
timidate us. We vex ourselves in the pursuit of fortune, 
honor and glory. Philosophy is worth more than the 
whole, and do we expect to purchase it without pain ? 
True, she declares to us, that to realize our desires is a 
part of the science of happiness ; but by no means the 
most important one. Yet it is the only one to which 
most men devote themselves. Philosophy should teach 
us, v^hat desires we ought to receive and cherish, as 
inmates. When they are fleeting and spring from a gay 
and creative imagination, let us yield ourselves without 
fear to their transient dreams. But when they may 



49 



exercise a long and decisive influence, let a mature ex- 
amination teach us, whether wisdom allows the attempt 
to realize them. Oh ! how much uncertainty and tor- 
ment we might spare our weakness, if from infancy we 
directed our pursuit towards the essential objects of 
felicity, and if we stripped those, which, in their issue, 
produce chimerical hopes and bitter regrets, of their 
deceitful charms ! What gratitude should we not owe 
that provident instruction, whose cares should indicate, 
and smooth our road to happiness ! The great results, 
which might be obtained from education, would be, to 
moderate the desires, and to find some indemnities for 
the sorrows of life. On the present plan, by arousing 
our emulation, by enkindling our instinctive ardor to 
increase our fortune, and eclipse our rivals, we make it 
a study, if I may so say, to render ourselves discontent- 
ed with our destiny ; and, as if afraid that we should 
not be sufficiently perverted by the contagion of exam- 
ple, we invoke ambition and cupidity to enter the soul. 
We treat as chimerical those desires, which are so sim- 
ple and pure, as to be pleasures of themselves, and which 
look to a happiness easy of attainment. 

Let us, then, unlearn most of the ideas we have re- 
ceived. Let us close our eyes on the illusions which 
surround us. Let us remould our plan of life, and 
retain in the heart only those desires which nature has 
placed there. Let reflection impart energy to our mind, 
and be our guide in the new path which reason opens 
before us. 

We shall be told, that these desires animate ns un- 
sought and continually. I admit it. But in most men 
they are the simple result of instinct, and are vague, and 



50 



witliout decisive effect. A craving for happiness is dif- 
fused as widely as life. The enlightened desire of hap- 
piness is as rare as wisdom. The mass of our species 
do not avail themselves of life, to enjoy it; but appa- 
rently for other purposes. 3Iy first and fundamental 
maxim is, that no one should live by chance. Enfran- 
chised from vulvar ideas, and guided by the principles 
of true wisdom, let happiness be our end; and let us 
view all our employments and pursuits, as means. 

I meet men of sanguine temperament, who say in the 
pride of internal energy, ' my calculations must succeed. 
I am certain to acquire wealth.' Another of the same 
class assures me, that he sees no turn to his rapid career 
of advancement ; and that he is confident of reaching 
the summit of greataess. What more fortunate result 
can he propose, than happiness ? My pupil should make 
all his plans subservient to the numbering of happy days 
even from the commencment of his career.^ 

Let us beware, however, of aspiring after a perfect 
felicity. The art I discuss, will not descend from heav- 
en. Its object is, to indicate desirable situations, 
to guide us towards them, when they offer, and to 
remove the vexations of life. The greater part of man- 
kind might exist in comfort. They fail of this, in aim- 
ing at impracticable amelioration of their condition. It 
is an egregious folly only to contemplate the dark side 
of our case. I deem it a mark of wisdom and strength 
of mind, rather to exaggerate its advantages. 

Let us carefully ascertain, wdiat things are indispens- 
able to our well-being ; and let us discipline all our de- 
sires towards the acquisition of them. If 1 consult those 
w^ho are driven onward bv the whirlwind of life, to learn 



51 



what objects are absolutely necessary to my end, what a 
long catalogue they will name ! If 1 ask moralists, how 
many sacrifices, incompatible with human nature, will 
they impose ! Agitated, and uncertain, I am conscious, 
that my powers are equally insufficient to amass all 
which the former prescribe, or to tear me from all which 
the latter disdainfully interdict. 

In examining this all important subject, without the 
spirit of system, I realize, that the essentials of a happy 
life are tranquillity of mind, independence, health, com- 
petence, and the affection of some of our equals. Let 
us strive to acquire them. They are numerous, I ad- 
mit, and difficult to unit^ in the possession of an indi- 
vidual. Nevertheless, if a severe discrimination enabled 
us to bound our pursuit by the desire of obtaining only 
these objects, what a great and happy change would be 
effected upon the earth ; and how many disappointments 
would be henceforward unknown ! ^^ 



LETTER VI. 

TRANaUILLITY OF MIND. 

By the word tranquillity I designate that state of the 
mind in which, estranged from the weaknesses of life, 
it tastes that happy calm which it owes to its own power 
and elevation. Inaccessible to storms, it still admits 
those emotions which give birth to pure pleasures, and 
yields to the generous movements which the virtues in- 



52 



spire. Tranquillity seems indifTerence only in the eyes 
of the vulgar. A delightful consciousness of existence 
accompanies it. We may meditate with a just pride 
upon the causes which produce it. Without reasoning 
we respire and enjoy it. It is the appropriate pleasure 
of the sage. 

A pure conscience is the profoundest source of this 
delightful calm. Without it, we shall attempt in vain to 
veil our faults from ourselves, or to listen only to the 
voice of adulation. An interior witness must testify 
that we have sometimes sought occasions to be useful ; 
and that we have always welcomed those who offered 
us opportunities to do good. 

Another condition equally necessary is to close the 
heart against unregulated ambition. I am well aware, 
in laying down this precept, that I shall be deemed an 
idle dreamer. If you are convinced beyond argument 
that there is nothing worth seeking in life but distinctions 
and honors, you may close my book. If you are ready 
to receive these brilliant illusions when they come un- 
sought, and return to the repose of your heart should 
you obtain them not, you may pursue the reading of my 
lessons. 

Do not fear that I am about to announce trite truths 
touching the vices which ambition brings in its train, 
and the shameful actions and base measures by w4iich 
it proposes to elevate its aspirant. Why should I de- 
claim in common-place against ambition when I have 
truths to offer so pressing, simple and self-evident ? 

To consecrate to true enjoyment as many days as 
possible, to lose in disquieting desires as few moments 
as we may, these are the elements of my philosophy. 



53 



The world, on the other hand, incessantly repeats, 
' Shine — ascend high places — bind fortune to your cha- 
riot wheels ;' the multitude listen, and consume life in 
tormenting desires which end in disappointment. I say 
to my disciple, make your pursuit, whatever it be, a 
source of present enjoyment, and be happy without de- 
lay. But the cry of objection reaches me, ' would you 
wish him to vegetate in obscurity and never transcend 
the limits of the narrow circle in which he was born ?' 
I would have him enjoy the self-respect of conscious 
usefulness, and taste all the innocent pleasures of the 
senses, the heart, mind and understanding. Farther 
than these, I see nothing but the miserable inquietudes 
of vanity. I admit that the pleasures of gratified ambi- 
tion are high flavored and intoxicating ; but compelled 
to choose among enjoyments which cannot all be tasted 
together, I balance the delights which they spread over 
life with the pains which it must cost to obtain them. If 
I incline to ambition, I must fly privacy and my retreat; 
and renounce the pleasures which my family, friends 
and free pursuits daily renew. I must no longer inhabit 
the paradise of my pleasant dreams. Abandoning the 
simple and sincere enjo}'menis of obscurity, I abandon 
repose and independence. 

Suppose I obtain those honors of which the distant 
brilliancy dazzles my vision, what destiny can I propose 
to myself? How long can I enjoy my honors ? Be- 
sieged by incessant alarm, through fear of losing them, 
how often shall I sigh over the ill-judged exchange by 
which I bartered peace and privacy for them ? Number 
all the truly happy days of the ambitious — they are 
those in which, forming his projects, and, in his imagina-^ 
5* 



54 



tion, removing the obstacles that he in his way, he em- 
bellishes his career with the illusions of his fancy. Too 
often the desired objects, which in the distance glittered 
in his eyes, resemble those paintings which, seen from 
afar, present enchanting scenery, but offer only revolt- 
ing views when beheld close at hand. 

I wish to avoid the usual exaggeration upon these 
subjects. Moralists deceive iis w4ien painting the con- 
trast between the virtues and the vices ; they assign un- 
mingled felicity to the one, and absolute misery to the 
other. 1 am sensible that even in his deepest inquietudes, 
and notwithstanding his desires and regrets, the votary 
of ambition still has his moments of intoxicating pleas- 
ure. It is not this alone, but happiness we seek. If we 
wish only to toil up the heights of ambition to enjoy the 
dignities of the summit, counsels are useless. If we ask 
for nothing more than pleasures, they may be varied to 
infinity, and be found pervading all situations in forms 
appropriate to all characters. This hypocrite, that vic- 
tim of envy, yonder raiser, do they experience, the 
moralist will ask, nothing but torment? Mark the 
misanthrope who incessantly repeats that in a world 
peopled with perverse beings and malign spirits, existence 
is an odious burden. This man, notwithstanding, finds 
his pleasures in a world which he affects so to detest. 
EfVery invective which he throws out against it, is a 
eulogy reflected back upon himself. He rises in his own 
estimation in proportion as he debases others, and finds 
ia himself all the qualities which he makes them want. 
Does he meet with a partisan of his principles? how de- 
lightful for two misanthropes to communicate their dis- 
coveries, and to make a joint war of sarcasm upon the 



55 



human race ! Does he find an antagonist ? he experi- 
ences a charm in controverting him. Besides, as in 
vilifying human nature, no one can want either facts or 
arguments to present it in hues sufficiently dark, in 
the complacency of conscious triumph, he terminates 
his war of words. 

The votary of ambition not on^y has pleasures which 
are often dazzling, but perhaps enjoyments not within 
the ordinary ken, which require profound observation. 
The ardent aspiration after success gives a charm to 
efforts in the struggle which would otherwise present only 
unmixed bitterness. Acts in themselves vile, ridiculous, 
or revolting, contemplated as means essential to a pro- 
posed end, lose their meanness and tendency to lessen 
self-respect. It is possible, in this view, that even ex- 
traordinary humiliations may inspire the ambitious with 
a sort of pride, in the consciousness that he has strength to 
stoop to them for his purposes. In fine, it is too true that 
pleasure may be found in the most capricious aberrations, 
the most shameful vices, and the most atrocious crimes. 

It will be seen that I abandon most of the trite decla- 
mation against ambhion. I touch not on its long inqui- 
etudes, its inevitable torments, exacerbated a hundred 
fold, if their victim preserve degrees of mental elevation 
and remains of moral sentiment. Life passes pleasantly 
among men who have just views, upright hearts and 
frank manners, the true elements of greatness and en- 
joyment. Surrounded by such minds, we respire, as it 
were, a free and an empyrean atmosphere. Yield your- 
self to the empire of ambition ; and in all countries, and 
in all time, you condemn yourself to live surrounded by 
greedy, unquiet, false and vindictive intriguers, gnashing 



56 



their teeth at all success in which they had no agency. 
All that encircle you unite insolence and baseness. 

Those who envy authority and office are worthy of 
commiseration. Men in power are happy, they think. 
They have but to wish, and it is accomplished. The 
epitaph of the Swedish minister is sublime, and the index 
of a great truth. He had run the career of power and 
fortune with success. When near the period of his 
death, he ordered this inscription for his tomb : Tandem 
Felix. At last 1 am happy. 

We never leave the society of the great as we entered 
it. We have become either better or more perverse. 
'Inexperience is easily dazzled with the superficial splen- 
dor. For a man of disciplined mind and a character 
of energy, it is the most useful of schools. Here he 
tests and confirms his principles. Here he observes, 
sometimes with terror, sometimes with disgust, the melan- 
choly results of the seductive passions. He here sees 
those who seem to have reached all their aims en- 
joying the repose of happy privacy. I anticipate the 
objection, ' that this is all absurdity ; that not one will be 
so convinced of his misery as to resign his power and 
descend from his elevation to that obscurity for which 
he sighs.' I believe it ; and I see in this a deeper shade 
in his misery. He has so long experienced the perni- 
cious excitement of this splendid torment, that he can no 
longer exist in repose. 

Such is the lot of erring humanity, that the world 
naturally associates glory and happiness with ambition, 
and sees not that the association is formed by our own 
mental feeleness. To rise above vulgar errors and the 
common train of thinking, to form sage principles, and, 
still more, to have the courage and decision to follow 



57 



them, this is the proof of real force of character. But, 
to feel the need of dazzling the vulgar, to be willing to 
creep in order to rise, to struggle and dispute for trinkets, 
this is the common standard by which the multitude 
estimate a great mind. 

Philosophers are accused of having presented grandeur 
under an unfavorable aspect in order to console them- 
selves for not having enjoyed it. History reads us 
another lesson. Aristotle instructed the son of Philip. 
Plato was received at the courts of kings. Cicero re- 
ceived the tide of ' father of his country' by a decree of 
the senate. Boeihius, thrice clad with the consular 
purple, when his locks were hoary, was dragged to a 
dungeon. He wrote 'the consolations inspired by phi- 
losophy,' and laid down his book at the foot of the scaf- 
fold. Marcus Aurelius honored the throne of the world 
by those modest virtues which shone still brighter in 
obscurity. Fenelon was raised to the highest dignities 
only to experience their bitterness, and, like his great 
predecessor, to owe his glory and his happy days only 
to wisdom and retirement. Frar.klin will be remember- 
ed in all time, not as the governor, legislator and am- 
bassador, but as having trained himself to his admirable 
philosophy of common sense amidst the laborious occu- 
pations of a printer. 

The certainty of acquiring the self-respect of con- 
scious usefulness, a certainty which the great can seldom 
have, ought alone to determine a wise man to quit his 
obscurity. But if the emoluments and honors of a high 
station seduce us, let us value our independence and let 
us not exchange treasures for tinsel. 

We have freedom to avoid every culpable action, and 



58 



to contemplate with pity the chimeras of ambition. Let 
us see if in misfortune we can preserve tranquillity of 
mind. 



LETTER VIT. 



OF MISFORTUNE. 



If we wish our precepts to be followed, we must 
avoid the extremes to which moralists and philosophers 
are too much inclined to press their doctrines, for they 
are impracticable in real life. It is useless to deny that 
there are evils against which the aids of reason and 
friendship are powerless. Let us leave him who is 
about to lose a being whose life is blended with his own, 
to groan unreproved. Time alone can enfeeble his re- 
membrances and assuage his pain. To render man in- 
accessible to suffering would be to change his nature. 
Those austere moralists who treat our feebleness with 
disdain, and who would render us indifferent to the 
most terrible blows of destiny, would at the same time 
leave us no sensibility to tiste pleasure. Nothing can 
be more absurd than the vain harangues by which com- 
mon-place consolation is offered to those who mourn a 
wife, a child, a friend. AH reasonings are ineffectual 
when opposed to these words, ' I have lost the loved one. 
You inform me that my misfortune is without a remedy, 
Oh ! if there were a remedy, instead of unavailing tears, 
I would employ it. It is precisely because there is none, 
that I grieve.' ' Your tears are useless.' * Still they 



59 



serve to solace me.' * God has done it.' ' True, and 
God has formed my heart to suffer from his blow.' 
* Your child is happy, and knew neither the errors nor 
the sorrows of life.' ' A parent's instinctive love inspired 
the desire that I might teach it to avoid both and obtain 
happiness.' ' In the course of a long career your friend 
gave an example of all the virtues.' ' It is because the 
loss of these virtues is irreparable to me that I must de- 
plore his death.' ^^ 

The greater portion of men, 1 admit, exaggerating 
their regrets, pay a tribute of dissembled grief rather to 
opinion, than to nature ; and cold declamation and 
frivolous distractions are sufficient to console them. But 
the orators of consolation sometimes press their lessons 
on hearts which are really bleeding. Let such groan 
at liberty, and attempt not to contradict nature. Soli- 
tude may exalt the imagination ; but it also inspires con- 
soling ideas. In the silence of its refuge the desolate 
mourner brings himself to a nearer communion with 
him he regrets. He invokes, sees, and addresses him. 
Grief is more ingenious than we imagine in finding con- 
solation, and has learned to employ different remedies 
according as the wounds are slight or deep. Two per- 
sons have each lost a dear friend. The one studiously 
avoids the places where he used to meet his friend. The 
other repairs to his desolate haunts, and surrounding 
himself by monuments associated with his memory, he 
seeks, if I may so say, to restore him to life. 

The death of a beloved wife is, perhaps, the most in- 
consolable of evils. Let this follow a series of other mis- 
fortunes, and it so effaces their remembrance that the 
sufferer feels he has not until then known real grief. 



60 



But if this affliction be one under which our strength 
is broken, let it be the only one to obtain this fatal 
triumph. Under all other misfortunes we may find in 
ourselves resources for sustaining them ; and may inva- 
riably either evade or assuage them, or mitigate their 
bitterness by resignation. 

Moralists have expatiated upon the manner in which 
a sage ought to contemplate the evils of life. Instead 
of subscribing to their trite maxims, often more impo- 
sing than practicable, I sketch a summary of my philo- 
sophy. I caution the feeble and erring beings that sur- 
round me, not to dream of unmixed happiness. I invite 
them to partake promptl}' of all innocent pleasures. The 
evils too often appended to them may follow. Know 
nothing of those wdiich have no existence except in 
opinion. Struggle with courage to escape all that may- 
be evaded. But if it become inevitable to meet them, 
let resignauon, closing your eyes on the past, secure the 
repose of patient endurance when happiness exists for 
you no longer. 

Permit me to give these ideas some development. 
If I may believe the most prevalent modern philosophy, 
tranquillity of mind is the result of organization, or tem- 
perament, and of circumstances. It is the burden of my 
inculcation, that it may be of our own procuring; and 
that we owe it still more to the masculine exercise of 
our reason, discipline, and mental energy, tlian to our 
temperament or condhion. 

We have reason to deplore that unhappy being, who, 
yielding to dreams of pleasure, forgets to forearm him- 
self against a fatal awakening. The history of great 
political convulsions, and, more than all, that of the 



61 



French revolution furnishes impressive examples of this 
spectacle. It offers more than one instance, in the 
feebler sex, of persons, who seemed created only to re- 
spire happiness. To the advantages of youth, talent and 
beauty, were united the most exalted rank, and wealth, 
pleasure and power, apparently to the extent of their 
wishes. To the dazzling fascination, with which a bril- 
liant crowd surrounded their inexperience, many of 
tnem united the richer domestic enjoyments of the wife 
and mother. In the midst of their illusions, the revolu- 
tionary shout struck their ear, like a thunderstroke. 
Executioners badethem ascend the scaffold. ^^ 

These great catastrophes, I know, are rare. But 
there will never cease to be sorrows, which will receive 
their last bitterness only in death. They are all too 
painful to be sustained, unless they have been wisely 
foreseen. Let us think of misfortune, as of certain 
characters, with whom our lot may one day compel us 
to consort. 

It is novelty alone, which gives our emotions extreme 
keenness. Whoever has strength of character, may learn 
to endure anything. The red men of the American wil- 
derness are most impressive examples of this truth. 
Time, however, is the most efficacious teacher of the 
lesson of endurance. Poussin, in his painting of Eu- 
domidas, has delineated the human heart with fidelity. 
The young girl of the piece abandons herself to despair. 
Half stretched upon the earth, her head falls supinely on 
the knees of the aged mother of the dying. This moth- 
er is sitting. Her attitude announces mingled medita- 
tion and grief. Amidst her tears, we trace firmness on 
her visage. One of the two women is taking her first 
6 



62 



lesson of misery. The other has already passed through 
a long apprenticeship of grief.^^ 

Reflection imparts anticipated experience. It takes 
from misery that air of novelty, which renders it terrible. 
When a wise man experiences a rev^erse, his new posi- 
tion has been foreseen. He has measured the sorrows, 
and prepared the consolations. Into whatever scene of 
trial he is brought, he will show in no one the embarrass* 
ment of a stranger. 

Taught to be conscious that we are feeble combat" 
ants, thrown upon an arena of strife, let us not calcu- 
late that destiny has no blows in store for us. Let us 
prepare for wounds, painful and slow to heal. Let us 
blunt the darts of misfortune in advance. Then, if they 
strike they will not penetrate so deep. But in premed- 
itating the trials, which may be in reserve for our cour- 
age, let not anticipated solicitude disturb the present* 
Of all mental efforts, foresight is the most difficult to 
regulate. If we have it not, we fall into reverses unpre- 
pared. If we exercise it too far, we are perpetually 
miserable by anticipation. 

The philosopher prepares himself for contingent 
perils by processes which impart a keener pleasure to 
present enjoyment. He better understands the value of 
the moments of joy, and learns to dispel the fears, 
which might mar their tranquillity. That is a gloomy 
wisdom, which condemns the precepts that invite us to 
draw, from the uncertainty of our lot, a motive to em- 
bellish the moment of actual happiness. Transient 
beings, around whom everything is changing and in mo- 
tion, adopt my maxims. Let us aid those who surround 
us, to put them in practice. Let us render those who 



63 



are happy today more happy. Tomorrow the oppor- 
tunity may have passed forever. 

As thou2:h nature liad not sowed sufficient sorrows in 

o 

our path during our short career, we have added to the 
mass by our own invention. The offspring of our vani- 
ty and puerile prejudices, these factitious pains seem 
sometimes more difficult to support, than real evils. A 
warrior, who has shown fearless courage in the deadly 
breach, has passed a sleepless night, because he was 
not invited to a party, or a feast; or because a riband, 
or a diploma has not been added to the many, with 
which he is already decorated. I had been informed, 
that the wife and son of a distinguished acquaintance 
were dangerously sick. I met him pale, and thoughtful. 
I was meditating, how to give him hope in regard to the 
objects of his supposed anxiety. While I was hesitating 
how to address him, he made known the subject of his 
real inquietude. He was in expectation of a high em- 
ployment. The man of power, in whose hand was the 
gift, had just received him coldly a second time. He 
was anxiously calculating his remaining chances, and 
striving to divine the causes of his discouraging recep- 
tion. 

To avoid such ridiculous agonies, let us adopt a max- 
im, not the less true, because the phrase, in which I 
express it, may seem trivial. Three quarters and half 
the remaining quarter of our vexations are not worth 
wasting a thought upon their cause. I add, that even 
in expectations which appear important, we ought to 
fear trusting too litde to chance. The order of events, 
which we call by this name, is often more sage than 
any that human calculation can arrange. If it decides 



64 



in a manner which at first view seenas greatly against us, 
let us defer our accusations, until we have more thorough- 
ly tested the event. I have met a man, who had long 
been an aspirant for a certain place, with a radiant coun- 
tenance, having just obtained it. Three months after- 
wards, he would have purchased at any price the power 
of recalling events. I have seen another friend in deso- 
lation, because he could not obtain the hand of the 
daughter of a man, whose enterprises promised an im- 
mense fortune. He had been rejected. The specula- 
tions of her father all failed ; and the reputation of his 
integrity and good faith with them. The despairing 
lover would have shared the poverty and disgrace of a 
helpless family ; and would have been tormented, be- 
sides, with an incompatible union, of itself sufficient to 
have rendered him miserable in the midst of all the ex- 
pected prosperity. One event is contemplated with a 
charmed eye ; another with despair. The issue alone 
can declare, which of the two we ought to have de- 
sired. 

I grant, that we are surrounded by real dangers. I 
pretend not to be above suifering ; and I attach no merit 
to becoming the reckless dupe of men or chance. 
The highest philosophy is at the same time the most sim- 
ple and practicable. There is no error more common 
than one, which is taken for profound wisdom. Most 
men look too deep for the springs of events, and the 
motives of action. In many alternadves, we shall be 
most wise in giving-^ the reins to chance. When we are 
menaced by an evident peril, let us summon all our 
energy, and courageously struggle to ward it off. If, 
after all, neither wisdom can evade it, nor bravery van-- 



65 



quish it, let us see, how true wisdom ordains us to sus- 
tain it. 

How many are ignorant of the value of resignation, 
or confound it with weakness ! The courage of resigna- 
tion is, perhaps, the most high and rare of all the forms 
of that virtue. Man received the gift directly from the 
Author of his being. His desires, inquietudes, misguid- 
ed opinions, the fruits of an ambitious and incongruous 
education, have weakened its force in the soul. Who 
can read the anecdote of the American wilderness with- 
out thrilling emotion ? An Indian, descending the Niag- 
ara river, was drawn into the rapids above the sublime 
cataract. The nursling of the desert rowed with in- 
credible vigor at first, in an intense struggle for life. 
Seeing his efforts useless, he dropped his oars, sung his 
death song, and floated in calmness down the abyss. 
His example is worthy of imitation. While there is 
hope, let us nerve all our force, to avail ourselves of all 
the chances it suggests. When hope ceases, and the 
peril must be braved, wisdom counsels calm resigna- 
tion.'^ 

In regard to unconquerable evils, the true doctrine is 
not vain resistance, but profound submission. It con- 
ceals the outline of what we have to suffer, as with a 
veil. It hastens to bring us the fruit of consoling time. 
It opens our eyes to a clearer view of the possessions 
which remain to us. It precedes hope, as twilight 
ushers in the day. 

It is by laying down certain well ascertained princi- 
ples of conduct, and re-examining them every day, that a 
new empire is given to reason, and that we learn to se- 
lect the most eligible point in all situations in life. The 
6* 



66 



Greek philosophers were, incontestably, the men, who 
best understood the art of becoming happy. Their 
studies led them to the unwearied contemplation of the 
true good, the advantages of elevation of mind, the dan- 
ger of the passions, and a calm submission to inevitable 
ills. Such were the habitual subjects of their m.edita- 
tions and discourses. They suffered less from the 
evils of life, only because they cultivated habits of pro- 
found reflection. 

Among the moderns, in pursuit of happiness, some- 
study only to multiply their physical enjoyments ; and 
limited to gross sensations, differ little from brutes, ex- 
cept in discoursing about what they eat. Others, 
higher in the scale of thought, cultivate the pleasures 
of literature and the fine arts. But disciplining but a 
single class of their powers, with a view to distinguish 
themselves from the vulgar, they are not always more 
happy. True philosophy is chiefly conversant about 
that kind of acquisition, which preeminently constitutes 
the rational man, forms his reason, and places him, as a 
master, in the midst of an unreflecting world surrounded 
by children full of ignorance and fatuity. 



67 



LETTER VIII 



OF INDEPENDENCE. 



We distinguish many kinds of liberty. That which 
we owe to equal laws, without being indispensable to a 
philosopher, renders the attainment of happiness more 
easy to him. However men differ in their political 
opinions, they all have an instinctive desire to be free. 
Every one is reluctant and afraid to submit himself to 
the capricious power of those about him. The thirst of 
power is only another form of this ardor for inde- 
pendence. 

With what interest we read in history of those igno- 
rant tribes, unknown to fame, whose liberty and simple 
manners at once astonish and delight us ? When visit- 
ing the isles of Greece, where the charm of memory 
rendered the view of their actual slavery more revolting, 
what delight the traveller experiences in traversing the 
little isle of Casos which had never submitted to the 
Ottoman yoke ! He there found the usages of the 
ancient Greeks, their costume, their beauty and their 
amiable and elevated natural manner. This isle is but 
a rock. But its dangerous shores have defended it 
against tyranny. Associations with the songs of Homer 
and Hesiod are renewed. Such a picture delights even 
a people whose manners are refined to a degree tending 
to depravation. Thus those opulent citizens who find 
the country a place of exile still decorate their splendid 
halls with landscapes and flowers. 



68 



Let not a sensitive and wandering imagination kindle 
too readily at the recitals of travellers. Were we to 
transport ourselves to one of those remote points of the 
earth where felicity is represented to have chosen her 
asylum, new usages, manners and pleasures, and a for- 
eign people every moment reminding us that we are 
strangers, would, perhaps, give birth to the most painful 
regrets. When in our youth we were charmed as we 
read of the prodigies of Athens and Rome, we uttered 
the wish that we had been born in those renowned re- 
publics. There is litde doubt that, had our wish been 
realized, we should be glad to escape their storms, in 
exchange for obscurely tranquil days. 

It is a distinguished folly which impels men far from 
their country in search of happiness. The greater por- 
tion, deceived in their hopes after having wandered 
amidst danger, die v/ith regret and sorrov/, worn out 
with vexation resulting from the broken ties and remem- 
brances of home. Home is the last thought that comes 
over the departing mind, ' Et dulces moriens reminis- 
citur Argos.' Vbi patria ibi bene is an adage which 
contains as much v^ise observation as elevated patriot- 
ism. Our country is our common mother. We ought 
to love and sustain her more firmly in her misery than 
in her prosperity. 

Whatever manners, opinions and talents we carry into 
another country, we are still strangers there. The man- 
ners which we adopt are new and irksome. The eye 
sees nothing to awaken dear and embellished remem- 
brances ; and we find in the heart of no one the rever- 
berating chord of ancient friendship and sympathy. We 
always regret the places where we knew the first plea- 



69 



sures and tlie first pains, and saw the first enchanting 
visions of life ; the cherished spots where we learned to 
love and be loved. If, returning there, drawn back by 
an invincible sentiment, after a long absence we see it 
again, what sorrows await us ! We find ourselves stran- 
gers in our own country. We ask for our parents and 
friends who departed in succession. The blows were 
struck at long intervals. We receive them all in a mo- 
ment. We return to shed tears only on the tombs of 
our fathers I^'"* 

Retreat and competence everywhere supply a wise 
man a degree of independence. Even when the sport 
of oppression and injustice, he yields to these evils as 
the caprices of destiny. He would be free in the midst 
of Constantinople under the government of the Sultan, 

Another kind of liberty is the portion of but a few in 
our own country — the liberty of disposing of our whole 
time at our choice. To those who understand not the 
value of time, this liberty bequeaths a heavy bondage. 
But to those who have learned the secret of happiness 
it is of inestimable value. The privilege of the favored 
possessor of opulence is a high one. Neither the slave 
of business, fashion, opinion or routine, it is in his power 
at awaking to say ' this day is all my own.' ^^ 

But moralists exclaim, 'you must pay your debt: 
you must render yourselves useful to society.' Let me 
not be understood to inculcate the doctrine of indolence. 
Industry will have wings and power when you unite it to 
freedom. But how many repeat the hackneyed cry of 
* the debt to society,' who, in the choice of their profes- 
sion, had never a thought but of its honors and emolu- 
ments ! This man whose industry in the pursuit of his 



70 



choice proves that his toil is his pleasure, that man who 
is in earnest to serve every one whom he can oblige and 
who might have shone, had he chosen it, in the career of 
ambition, but who, modest, proud, studious and free, lives 
happily in the bosom of retreat, has this man done nothing 
to acquit his debt ? Is his example useless to society ? 

If my condition deny me leisure and independence in 
regard to the disposal of my time, without bestowing 
much concern upon the choice of my profession, I 
should choose that most favorable to free thoughts, to 
breathing the open air, and, as much as might be, in 
view of a beautiful nature. I should consider it as a 
most important element in my happiness that I should be 
chiefly conversant with people of compatible characters. 
The profession of an advocate, perpetually conversant 
with the follies, vices and crimes of society, is one of the 
most trying, both to integrity and philosophy. That of 
the physician, continually witnessing groans, tears and 
physical suffering, however painful to sensibility, may 
become the source of high reflected pleasure to a gen- 
erous and humane heart. I would avoid a funcdon the 
disquieting responsibility of w^hich would disturb my 
sleep. Above all, I should dread one of high honor and 
emolument, connected with proportionate uncertainty of 
tenure. 

The balance of enjoyment being taken into view, I 
should prefer an occupation of privacy. It would be 
more easy at once to obtain and preserve. It would 
expose me less to envy and competition. Exempt 
from the inquietudes inspired by severe labors, and the 
ennui of important etiquette, I should at least find an ab- 
solute independence, every evening, at the relinquish-' 



71 



merit of my daily routine of occupation, and I should 
suffer no care for the morrow ; I would learn to enhance 
the charms of my condition by thinking of the agitation, 
regrets and alarms of those who are still swept by the 
whirlwinds of life. In this way I would imitate him who, 
to procure a more delicious repose, placed his couch 
under a tent near the sea, to be lulled by the dashing of 
its waves and the noise of its storms. But it is time to 
contemplate the most useful kind of liberty, the only in- 
dispensable kind, and happily one which is accessible to 
all. It is the liberty resulting from self-command and 
inward mastery of ourselves. It has a value to cause 
all others to be forgotten — a value which no other kind 
can replace. 

What liberty can that man enjoy who is the slave of 
ambition ? A gesture, a look of the eye, a smile af- 
frightens him and causes him painful and trembling cal- 
culations what that sinister sign of his master may presage. 

Look at the opulent merchant v/hose hopes are the 
sport of the winds, seas, robbers, changes of trade, mu- 
nicipal regulations, and a crowd of agents who seem 
4bubordinate, but who really command him. 

Whatever kind of liberty we aim to possess, we may 
certainly conclude that the surest means to enjoy it is to 
have few wants. But how restrain our wants ? The 
greater portion are happily placed by their condition 
where they are ignorant of the objects which most pow- 
erfully excite and seduce desire. The golden mean 
secludes them from many temptations full of the bitter- 
est regret, and exacts of them little effort of wisdom. 
In the class of men of leisure and elevated mind there 
are two means of rising above many wants. 



72 



The more austere philosophers have altogether dis- 
dained those pleasures which they could never hope to 
obtain. Reducing themselves to the limits of the strict- 
est necessity, they indemnify themselves for some priva- 
tions by the certainty of being secured from many pains, 
and by the sentiment of conscious independence. This 
is, doubtless, one of the surest means of obtaining inde- 
pendence ; and they who attempt to employ any other, 
differ from the vulgar by their principles rather than 
their conduct. 

How many objects, of which the contemplation 
awakens the desires, would have nothing dangerous if 
we could always exercise a stern self-control over our 
minds ! The surest means of exercising this self-control 
is to reduce the number of our wants. To do it, I 
admit, demands a rare elevation of mind and the exer- 
cise of a high degree of philosophy. But since its value 
is beyond its cost, let us dare to acquire it. 

While the fleeting dreams of pleasure hover around 
us, let reason still say to us, ' an instant may dissipate 
them.' Let us, then, be ready to find a new pleasure in 
the consciousness of our firmness and our masculine and 
vigorous independence. An enlightened mind reigns 
over pleasures ; and while they glitter around, enjoys 
all that are innocent ; but disdains a sigh or a regret 
when they have taken wings and disappeared. 

I commend the example of Alcibiades, the disciple of 
the graces and of wisdom, who astonished in turn the proud 
Persian by his dignity, and the Lacedemonian by his 
austerity. His enemies may charge him with incessant 
change of principle. To me he seems always the same, 
always superior to the men and circumstances that sur- 



73 



round him. Such strong mental stamina resemble those 
robust plants that sustain, without annoyance, the ex- 
tremes of heat and cold. 



LETTER IX 

OF HEALTH. 



Health results from moderation, gayety and the ab 
sence of care. Eternal wisdom has ordained, that the 
emotions which disturb our days, are those which have 
a natural tendency to shorten them.^^ 

If there were ground for a single charge against the 
justice of nature, it would be, that the errors of inexpe- 
rience seem punished with too great severity. We 
prodigally waste the material of life and enjoyment, as 
we do our other possessions, as if we thought it inex- 
haustible. 

To the errors of youth succeed the vices of mature 
age. Ambition and cupidity, envy and hatred concur to 
devour the very aliment of life. The storms which 
prostrate the^ moral faculties, equally sap the physical 
energy^ Every debasing passion is a consuming poison. 
To what other source of evil can we assign those inqui- 
etudes and puerile anxieties, which disturb the days of 
the greater portion of mankind ? They are occupied by 
trifling interests, and agitated by vain debates. They 
watch for futile excitements, and are in desolation from 
chimerical troubles. Pleasant emotions sustain life, and 
produce upon it the effect of a gentle current of air 
7 



74 



upon flame. Trains of thought habitually elevated, and 
sometimes inclined to revety, impart pure and true gay- 
ety to the soul. To be able to command this train is 
one of the rarest felicities of endowment. A distin- 
guished physician recorded in his tablets the apparent 
paradox, that three quarters of men die of vexation or 
grief. 

Huffland has published a work, upon the art of pro- 
longing life, full of interesting observations. ' Philoso- 
phers,' says he, ' enjoy a delightful leisure. Their 
thoughts, generally estranged from vulgar interests, have 
nothing in common with those afflicting ideas, with which 
other men are continually agitated and corroded. Their 
reflections are agreeable by their variety, their vague 
liberty, and sometimes even by their frivolity. Devoted 
to the pursuits of their choice, the occupations of their 
taste, they dispose freely of their time. Oftentimes they 
surround themselves with young people, that their natu- 
ral vivacity may be communicated to them, and, in 
some sort, produce a renewal of their youth.' We may 
make a distinction between the different kinds of philos- 
ophy, in relation to their influence upon the duration of 
life. Those which direct the mind towards sublime 
contemplations, even were they in some degree super- 
stitious, such as those of Pythagoras and Plato, are the 
most salutary. Next to them, I place those, the study 
of which, embracing nature, gives enlarged and elevated 
ideas upon infinity, the stars, the wonders of the uni- 
verse, the heroic virtues, and other similar subjects. 
Such were those of Democritus, Philolaus, Xenophanes, 
the Stoics, and the ancient astronomers.' 

^ I may cite next those less profound thinkers, who 



75 



instead of exacting difficult researches, seemed destin- 
ed only to amuse the mind ; the followers of which 
philosophy, deviating wide from vulgar opinion, peace- 
ably sustain the arguments for and against the propo- 
sitions advanced. Such was the philosophy of Carne- 
ades and the Academicians, to whom we may add the 
Grammarians and Rhetoricians.' 

' But those which turn only upon painful subtilties, 
which are affirmative, dogmatic and positive, which bend 
all facts and opinions to form and adjust them to certain 
preconceived principles and invariable measures ; in 
fine, such as are thorny, arid, narrow and contentious, 
these are fatal in tendency, and cannot but abridge 
the life of those, who cultivate them. Of this class was 
the philosophy of the Peripatetics, and that also of the 
Scholastics.' 

Tumultuous passions and corroding cares are two 
sources of evil influences, which philosophy avoids. 
Another influence, adverse to life, is that mental feeble- 
ness, which renders persons perpetually solicitous about 
their health, effeminate and unhappy. Fixing their 
thoughts intensely on the functions of life, those func- 
tions, that are subjects of this anxious inspection, labor. 
Imagining themselves sick, they soon become so. The 
undoubting confidence that we shall not be sick, is per- 
haps the best prophylactic for preserving health. 

I am ignorant of the exact influence of moral upon 
physical action, in relation to health. But of this I am 
confident, that it is prodigious ; that physicians have not 
made it a sufficient element in their calculations, or 
employed it as they should ; and that in future, under a 
wise and more philosophic direction, it may operate an 
immense result, both in restoring and preserving health. 



76 



A man reads a letter, which announces misfortunes, 
or sinister events. His head turns. His appetite ceases. 
He becomes faint, and oppressed ; and his life is in dan- 
ger. No contagion-, however, no physical blow has 
touched him. A thought has palsied his forces in a 
moment ; and has successively deranged every spring 
of life. We have read of persons of feeble and unin- 
formed mind, who have fallen sick, in consequence of 
the cruel sport of those, who have ingeniously alarmed 
their imagination, and cautiously indicated to them a 
train of fatal symptoms. Since imagination can thus 
certainly overturn our physical powers, why may it not, 
under certain regulations, restore them ? Among the 
numberless recorded cases of cures, reputed miraculous, 
it is probable, that a great part may be accounted fox on 
this principle.^'' 

Suppose a paralytic disciple of the school of miracles, 
whose head is exalted with ideas of the mystic power of 
certain holy men, and who is meditating on the succor 
which he expects from a divine interposition manifested 
in his favor. In an ecstasy of faith, he sees a minister 
of heaven descend enveloped in light, who bids him 
' arise, and walk.' In a moment the unknown nervous 
energy, excited by the mysterious power of faith, touches 
the countless inert and relaxed movements. The man 
arises and walks. During the siege of Lyons, when 
bombs fell on the hospital, the terrified paralytics arose 
and fled. 

I am not disposed to question all the cures, which in 
France have been attributed to magnetism. We know, 
what a salutary effect the sight of his physician pro- 
duces on the patient, who has confidence in him. His 



77 



cheerful and encouraging conversations are among the 
most efficient remedies. If we entertained a long cher- 
ished and intimate persuasion, that by certain signs, or 
touches, he could dispel our complaints, his gestures 
would have a high moral and physical influence. Mag- 
netism was in this sense, as Bailly justly remarked, a 
true experiment upon the power of the imagination. At 
the moment of its greatest sway, while some regarded it 
an infallible specific, and others deemed it entirely inef- 
ficient, another class held it in just estimation. I cite 
an extract from the report of the Academy of Science. 

' We have sought,' say they, ' to recognise the pres- 
ence of the magnetic fluid. But it escaped our senses. 
It was said, that its action upon animated bodies was the 
sole proof of its existence. The experiments, which we 
made upon ourselves, convinced us, that, as soon as we 
diverted our attention, it v/as powerless. Trials made up- 
on the sick taught us, that infancy, which is unsusceptible 
of prejudice experienced nothing from it ; that mental 
alienation resisted the action of magnetism, even in an 
habitual condition of excitability of the nerves, where 
the action ought to have been most sensible. The 
efi:ects which are attributed to this fluid, are not visible 
except when the imagination is forewarned, and capable 
of being struck. Imagination, then, seems to be the 
principle of the action. 

' It remained to be seen, whether we could reproduce 
these effects by the influence of imagination alone. We at- 
tempted it, and fully succeeded. Whhout touching the 
subjects, who believed themselves magnetised, and with- 
out employing any sign, they complained of pain and a 
great sensation of heat. On subjects, endowed with 
7* 



more excitable nerves, we produced convulsions, and 
what they called ciises. We have seen an exalted im- 
agination become sufficiently energetic to take away the 
power of speech in a moment. At the same time, we 
proved the nullity of magnetism, put in opposition with 
the imagination. Magnetism alone, employed for thirty 
minutes, produced no effect. Imagination put in action 
produced upon the same person, with the same means, 
in circumstances absolutely similar, a strong, and well 
defined convulsion. 

* In fine, to complete the demonstration, and to finish 
the painting of the effect of the imagination, a power 
equally capable of agitating, and calming, we have caus- 
ed those convulsions to cease by the same power, which 
produced them — the power of the imagination. 

* What we hax^e learned, or, at least what has been 
confirmed to us in a demonstrative and evident manner, 
by examination of the processes of magnetism is, that 
man can act upon man at every moment and almost at 
will, by striking his imagination ; that signs and ges- 
tures the most simple may have effects the most power- 
ful ; and that the influence which may be exerted upon 
the imagination, may be reduced to an art, and conduct- 
ed by method.' 

These truths had never before acquired so much evi- 
dence. We know, that cures may be wrought by the 
single influence of imagination. Ambrose Pare Boer- 
haave, and many other physicians, have cited striking 
proofs of this fact. Tbe first of these writers procured 
abundant sweats for a patient, in making him believe 
that a perfectly inert substance given him, was a violent 
sudorific. 



79 



It is worthy of the attention of moralists- and physiolc^ 
gists, as well as physicians, to examine, to what point we 
may obtain salutary effects, by exciting the imagination* 
But perhaps, there would soon be cause to dread the 
perilous influence of this art, which can kill, as well as 
make alive. This excitable and vivid faculty is never 
more easily put in operation, that when acted upon by 
the presentiments of charlatanism and superstition. 

We possess another means of operation, which may be 
exercised without danger, and the power of which is, 
also, capable of producing prodigies. Education ren- 
dering most men feeble and timid, they are ignorant, 
bow much an energetic will can accomplish. It is able 
to shield us from many maladies ; and to hasten the 
cure of those under which we labor. 

In mortal epidemics, the physicians, who are alarmed 
at their danger, are ordinarily the first victims. Feas; 
plunges the system into that state of debility, which 
predisposes it to fatal impressions, while the moral force 
of confidence, communicating its aid to physical energy, 
enables it to repel contagion. 

I could cite many distinguished names of men, who 
attributed their cure, in desperate maladies, to the cour- 
age which never forsook them, and to the efforts which 
they made to keep alive the vital spark, when ready to 
become extinct. One of them pleasantly said, ' I 
should have died like the rest, had I wished it.'^^ 

Pecklin, Barthes and others think that extreme de- 
sire to see a beloved person once more, has sometimes 
a power to retard death. It is a delightful idea. I feel 
with what intense ardor one might desire to live another 
day, another hour, to see a friend or a child for the last 



80 



. time. The flame of love, replacing that of life, blazes 
up for a moment before both are quenched in the final 
darkness. The last prayer is accorded ; and life ter- 
minates in tasting that pleasure for which it was pro- 
longed. If this be true, the principle on which the most 
touching incident of romance is founded, is not a ficdon. 

I have no need to say that an energetic will to recover 
from sickness has no point of analogy with that fearful 
solicitude which the greater part of the sick experience. 
The latter, produced by mental feebleness, increases the 
inquietude and aggravates the danger. Even indiffer- 
ence would be preferable. If education had imparted 
to us the advantages of an energetic will and real force 
of mind, if from infancy we had been convinced of the 
efficacy of this moral power, we have no means to deter- 
mine that it would not have been, in union with the desire 
of life, an element in the means of healing our maladies. 

Medicine is still a science so'conjectural that the most 
salutary method of cure, in my view, is that which strives 
not to contradict nature, but to second her efforts by 
moral means. I am ready to believe that amidst the 
real or imagined triumphs of science, those of medicine 
will, in the centuries to come, hold a rank to w^hich 
its past achievements will have borne no proportion. 
But what an immense amount of experiment will be ne- 
cessary ! How many unfortunate beings must contri- 
bute to the expense of these experiments ! 

Contrary to the general opinion, I highly esteem phy- 
sicians and think but very little of medicine. In the 
profession of medicine we find the greatest number of 
men of solid minds and various erudition ; and the best 
friends of humanity. But they are in the habit of vaunt- 



81 



ing the progress of their science. To me it seems in- 
cessantly changing its principles, without ever varying 
its results. The systems of various great men have been 
successively received and rejected. Do we, however, 
imagine that the great physicians who have preceded us 
were more unfortunate in their practice than those of 
our days? Among the most eminent physicians of our 
cities, one practises by administering strong cathartics. 
Another is resolute for copious bleeding. A third bids 
us watch and wait the indications of nature. Each of 
these assumes that the system of the rest is fatal — and 
so, it would seem, it should be. At the end of the year, 
however,' I doubt if any one of them all has more re- 
proaches to make, as regards want of success, than any- 
other. 

From these facts, there are those who hold that it is 
most prudent to confide to nature, as the physician ; for- 
getful that, if he could bring no other remedy than hope, 
he unites moral to physical aid. Yet, the very persons 
who, in health are readiest to maintain this doctrine, like 
children who are heroes during the day but cowards in 
the dark, when they are sick, are as prompt as others in 
sending for the physician. 

Even if agitation and fear had not fatal effects, in ren^ 
dering us more accessible to maladies, wisdom would 
strive to banish them, in pursuit of the science of happi- 
ness. Fear, by anticipating agony, doubles our suffer- 
ings. If there could exist a rational ground for continual 
inquietude, it would be found in a frail constitution. But 
how many men of the feeblest health survive those of 
the most vigorous and robust frame ! Calculations upon 
the duration of life are so uncertain that we can always 
make them in our favor. 



82 



To him who cuhivates a mild and pleasant philoso- 
phy, old age itself should not be contemplated with 
alarm. It may seem a paradox to say that all men are 
nearly of the same age, in reference to their chances of 
another day. Men are as confident of seeing tomorrow 
and the succeeding day, at eighty, as at sixteen. Such 
is the beautiful veil with which nature conceals from us 
the darkness of the future. 

In general, men have less sympathy for the suffering 
than their condition ought to inspire. We meet them 
with a sad face and are more earnest to show them that 
we are afflicted ourselves, than to seek to cheer their 
dejection. We multiply so many questions touching 
their health that it would seem as if we feared to allow 
them to forget that they were sick. 

Of all subjects of conversation, my own pains and phy- 
sical infirmities have become the least interesting to me ; 
as I know they must be to others. I do not wish that 
those who surround my sick bed should converse as 
though arranging the preparations for my last dress, or 
determining the hour of my interment. 

If we would live in peace, and die in tranquillity, let 
us, as much as possible, avoid importunate cares. Our 
business is to unite as many friends as we may ; and to be- 
guile pain and sorrow by treasuring as many resources 
of innocent amusement as our means will admit. If our 
sufferings become painful and incurable, we must con- 
centrate our mental energy and settle on our solitary 
powers of endurance. We die, or we recover. Nature, 
though calm, moves irresistibly to her point ; and com- 
plaint is always worse than useless.^^ 

But in arming ourselves whh courage to support our 
own evils, let us preserve sensibility and sympathy fox 



83 



the sufferings of others. It is among the dangerously 
sick that we find those unfortunate beings who are most 
worthy to inspire our pity. Their only expectation is 
death, preceded by cruel tortures ; and yet they, proba- 
bly, suffer less for thenfiselves than for weeping depend- 
ents whom they are leaving, it may be, without a single 
prop. Ah ! during the few days of sorrow that remain 
to them on the earth, how earnestly ought we to strive 
to mitigate their pains, to calm their alarms and animate 
their feeble hopes ! Blessed be that beneficent being 
who shall call one smile more upon their dying lips 1'^® 



LETTER X 



OF CO MPETENC E. 



Pretended sages announce to us, with sententious 
gravity, that virtue ought to be the single object of our 
desires ; that, strengthened by it, we can support priva- 
tions and misery without suffering. Useless moralists ! 
Shall I yield faith to precepts which the experience of 
every day falsifies? It is only necessary, in refutation, 
to present a man who has broken his limb, or whose 
children suffer hunger. 

His plan is wise, who examines, with a judgment free 
from ambition, the amount of fortune necessary to com- 
petence in his case, viewed in all its bearings ; and com- 
mences the steady pursuit of it. Having reached that 
measure, if his desires impel him beyond the limit which. 



84 



in a more reasonable hour, he prescribed for himself, he 
henceforward strives to be happy by sacrificing enjoy- 
ment. He barters it for a very uncertain means of pur- 
chasing even pleasures. In this way competence be- 
comes useless to the greater part of those who obtain it. 
Victims of the common folly, and still wishing a little 
more, they lose, in the effort to get rich, the time which 
they ought to spend in enjoyment. We see grasping 
and adroit speculators on every side ; and, but rarely, 
men who know how to employ the resources of a mode- 
rate fortune. It is not the art of acquiring beyond com- 
petence, but of wisely spending, that w^e need to learn. 

Our business in life is to be happy ; and yet, simple 
and obvious as this truism is, the greater number dis- 
dain or forget it. To judge from the passions and ob- 
jects that we see exciting man to action, we should sup- 
pose that he was placed on the earth, not to become 
happy, but rich. 

To what purpose so many cares and studies ? ' That 
man,' we are answered with a peculiar emphasis, ' has 
an immense income.' In his rare, brilliant and envied 
condition, if he does not vegetate under the weight of 
ennui, I recognise in him a man of astonishing merit. 

The opulent may be divided into two classes. The 
employment of the one is to watch over their expendi- 
tures. The other study the mode of dissipating their 
revenue. Can I present, in detail, the cares and vexa- 
tions which an immense fortune brings ? The possessor 
leaves discussion w'ith his tenants, to com.mence angry 
disputes with his workmen. From these he departs to 
listen to the schemes of projectors, or to the information of 
advocates. Is not such a result dearly purchased at the 



85 



expense of repose, independence and time ? Would it 
not be belter to relinquish a part of these possessions, in 
order to dispose, in peace, of the remainder ? I admit 
that a man who devotes himself to lucrative pursuits is 
not overwhelmed with continual ennui. The banker 
respires again, after having grown pale over his accounts. 
A speculation has succeeded, and the enchantment of 
success banishes his alarms, fatigues and slavery. But 
he whose purpose in life is to secure as many happy 
moments as he can, and who sees how many innocent 
pleasures the other allows to escape him, would refuse 
his fortune at the price which he pays for it. 

Another opulent class inherit fortunes acquired by the 
industry and sacrifices of their fathers. Rendered ef- 
feminate in a school, the reverse of that in which their 
fathers were trained, without resources in themselves, 
accustomed from infancy to have their least desires an- 
ticipated, under the influence of feeble parents, pliant 
and servile instructers, greedy servants and a seducing 
world, their appetite is early palled, and every pleasure 
in life worn out. 

But suppose the rich heir brought up as though he 
were not rich, destiny places before him a strange alter- 
native. If he succeed in resisting desires which every- 
thing excites and favors, what painful struggles ! If he 
yield to them, what effort can preserve him an untainted 
mind ? The experience of all time declares the im- 
probability that he will resist. So many pretended 
friends are at hand to take up the cause of the present 
against the future, a cause, too, which always finds a 
powerful patron in our own bosoms ! The pleasures of 
the senses have, besides, this dangerous advantage, that 
8 



86 



before we have tasted them we are sufficiently instruct- 
ed by the imagination, that we shall receive vivid and 
delightful emotions from their indulgence. We are not 
certain that pleasures of a higher class have a charm of 
enchantment until after we have made the happy ex- 
periment. Thus everything prepares the opulent for 
the sadness of satiety, moral disgust and ennui without 
end, the only suffering of life which is not softened by 
hope. 

You will sometimes see these men at public places 
where they are professedly in search of amusement, 
giving no sign of existence except by an occasional yawn. 
Cast your eyes on those spectators who are alive to 
the most vivid enthusiasm. They are young students 
or mechanics who have economised ten days to spend 
an hour of the eleventh in this amusement !~' It is in 
clean cottages, in small but well directed establishments, 
that pleasures are vivid, because they are obtained at a 
price, and through industry and order. A festival is 
projected, or a holiday returns. Friends are assembled, 
and how blithe and free is the joy ! A slight economy 
has been practised to supply the moderate expenses. 
There is high pleasure in looking forward to the epoch 
and in making the arrangements in anticipation. There 
is still more pleasure in the remembrance. When the 
interval which separates us from pleasure is not very 
long, even this interval has charms. 

What a touching narrative is recorded of the suppers 
of two of the greatest men of the past age, of whom one 
was the Abbe de Condillac. Both were so poor that 
the expenses were reduced to absolute necessaries. But 
what conversations prolonged the repast, and with what 



87 



swiftness flew the enchanted hours ! Neither great 
genius nor profound acquirements are necessary to enjoy 
evenings equally pleasant. 

In an establishment of moderate competence, those 
who compose it rarely leave it. All the joys which 
spring up in the bosom of a beloved family seem to 
have been created for them. Give them riches, without 
changing their hearts, and they would taste less pleasure. 
New duties and amusements would trench upon a part 
of that time which had hitherto been sacred to friendship. 
More conversant with society, they would be less to- 
gether. Receiving more visitants, they would see fewer 
friends. Transported into a new sphere where a thou- 
sand objects of comparison would excite their desires, 
they would, perhaps, for the first time, experience priva- 
tions and regrets. 

Women and young people taste the advantages which 
a retired, pleasant and modest condition ofiers only so 
long as they avoid comparisons of that lot with one which 
the world considers more favored. We must carry into 
the world a high philosophy, or never quit our retreat. 

Persons even of a disciplined reason, just thought and 
a noble character, may grow dizzy, for a moment, with 
the splendor and noise of opulence, perceived for the 
first time. But as soon as they begin to blush and for- 
feit self-respect in tracing the causes of their intoxication, 
the scene vanishes, and, as they contemplate and com- 
pare, it is replaced by the sentiment of their own happi- 
ness. In the midst of the brilliant crowd they experi- 
ence a legitimate pride in saying, ' from how many regrets 
and cares am 1 saved ! How many futilities are here, 
of which I have no need !' 



88 



But I shall be told that opulence has at least this ad- 
vantage, that it attracts consideration. There is no doubt 
that many people measure the esteem they pay you by 
the scale of your riches. You will never persuade them 
that merit often walks on foot, while stupidity rides in a 
carriage. 

But will a man esteem himself a philosopher, and 
take into his calculation the opinion of such fools as these ? 
In a circle where opulence puts forth its splendor, when 
you experience a slight revulsion of shame in perceiv- 
ing that the simplicity of your dress is remarked, ask 
yourself if you would change your mode of life, cha- 
racter and talents with those around you ? If you feel 
that you would not, repress the weakness of wishing 
incompatible advantages ; and resume the self-respect 
of an honest man.^^ 

To be satisfied w^ith a moderate fortune is, perhaps, 
the highest test and best proof of philosophy. All others 
seem to me doubtful. He who can live content on a 
little, gives a pledge that he would preserve his probity 
and courage in the most difficult situations. He has 
placed his virtue, repose and happiness as far as possible 
above the caprices of his kind, and the vicissitudes of 
earthly things. 

There are moments when the desire of wealth pene- 
trates even the retreat of a sage, not with the puerile and 
dangerous wish to dazzle with show, but with the hope, 
dear to a good mind, that it might become a means of 
extended usefulness. When imagination creates her gay 
visions, we sometimes think of riches, and in our dreams 
make an employment of them worthy of envy. What 
a delightful field then opens before those who possess 



89 



riches ? They can encourage the progress of science, 
and aid in advancing the glory of letters. How much 
assistance they can offer to deserving young people 
whose first efforts announce happy dispositions, and 
whose character, at the same time, little fitted for 
worldly success, is a compound of independence and 
timidity? How much they may honor themselves in 
decking the modest retreat of the aged scholar who has 
consecrated his hfe to study, and who has neglected his 
personal fortune to enrich the age with inventions of 
genius ! They have the means of giving a noble im- 
pulse to the arts, without trenching upon their resources. 
A picture, which perpetuates the remembrance of a 
generous or heroic exploit, costs no more than a group 
of bacchanalians or debauchees. A career more beau- 
tiful still, is open to opulence. Of how many vices and 
how many tears it may dry the source ! A rich man, 
to become happy, has only to wish to become so. He 
can not only immortalize his name as the patron of arts 
and useful inventions, but, what is better, can deserve 
the blessings of the miserable. Such pleasures are 
durable, and may be tasted, with unsated relish, after a 
settled lassitude from the indulgence of all others.^ 

Let not such seducing dreams, however, leave us a 
prey to ambhious and disappointing desires at our 
awakening. It is in the sphere where Providence has 
placed us, that we must search for the means of being 
useful ; and if there are pleasures which belong only to 
opulence, there are others which can best be found in 
mediocrity. Perhaps, in giving us riches, we shall 
realize but half the dream of virtue and contentment. 
' It seems to me,' says Plato, ' that gold and virtue were 



90 



placed in the opposite scales of a balance ; and that we 
cannot throw an additional weight into one scale, without 
subtracting an equal amount from the other.' 



LETTER XI. 

OF OPINION AND THE AFFECTION OF MEN, 

In selecting the same route, in which the agitated 
crowd is pressing onward, we are evidently on the wrong 
road to happiness ; since we hear the multitude on every 
side expressing dissatisfaction with their life. If we 
choose a different path, we cannot expect to evade the 
shafts of censure, since the same multitude are naturally 
disposed, from pride of opinion, to think all, not on the 
same road with themselves, astray. It is, then, an egre- 
gious folly to hope for a happiness thus pursued by system, 
and for the approbation of the vulgar at the same time. 
Among the obstacles which are at war with our repose, 
one of the greatest, and at the same time most frivolous, 
is the fatal necessity of becoming of importance to oth- 
ers, instead of becoming calmly sufficient to ourselves. 
Like restless children, always seduced by appearances, 
it is a small point, that we are happy in our condition. 
We desire that it should excite envy. A happiness 
which glares not in the eyes of the multitude, compelling 
them to take note of it, is no longer regarded as happi- 
ness. There are both dupes and victims of opinion. 
Those who are devoured by the fever of intrigue, and 



91 



those who, to dazzle others, dissipate their fortune, are tli^e 
miserable victims. The dupes are those who volunta- 
rily weary themselves out of three quarters of their life, 
and offer this as their apology — ' these visits, these cere- 
monies, these evening parties ! they are tiresome, we 
grant. But we must mix with good company.' Why 
not always mix with the best — your own enlightened 
and free thoughts ? 

1 shall be obliged to present one truth under a thou- 
sand forms. It is that much courage is exacted for the 
attainment of happiness. Such a man has estimable 
qualities, an interesting family, tried friends, a fortune 
equal to his wants. His lot ought to seem a delightful 
one. How differently the public judge ! ' This man,' 
says the public, ' has intelligence. Why has he not in- 
creased his fortune ? He is able to distinguish hrmself. 
Why has he not sought place or office? He seems to 
stand aloof, that he may pique himself on a proud and 
foolish originality. We judge him less favorably. Every 
one distinguishes himself, that can. To be without dis- 
tinction is a proof that he has not power to acquire it.' If 
the man, of whom this is said, has not courage, mourn 
over him. The public will end, by rendering him 
ashamed of his happiness. 

To hear the false reasoning of the multitude is not 
what astonishes me. That stupid people, full of self- 
esteem, should hold these foolish discourses, with strong 
emphasis, is perfectly natural. What I wonder at is, that 
their maxims should guide people of understanding. 

We are guilty of the whimsical contradiction of 
judging our own ideas with complacency, and of pro- 
nouncing upon those of others with severity. Yet we 



92 



every day sacrifice principles which we esteem, through 
fear of being blamed by people whom we despise.^^ 

The moment I escape the yoke of opinion, what a 
vast and serene horizon stretches out before my eyes ! 
The pleasures of vanity scatter, like morning mists. 
Those of repose and independence remain. I no longer 
sacrifice to the disquieting desire of preserving a pro- 
tector, or eclipsing ray rivals. I am no longer the slave 
of gloomy etiquette. I henceforward prolong my de- 
lightful evenings for my own enjoyment. The caprices 
of men have lost their empire over me. If poor, I shall 
remain a stranger to the pains excited by blasting ridi- 
cule and overwhelming contempt. If rich, indolent and 
impertinent people will no longer regulate my expenses ; 
and the happy choice of my pleasures will multiply my 
riches. These are presented to a wise man in two oppo- 
site relations. Do they call for a service ? The most tender 
interest excites him to their aid. Do they show a dis- 
position to manage him? He meets the attempt only 
with profound disdain. He who possesses a disciplined 
reason, and a courageous mind, does not choose to walk 
by the faith of a feeble and uncertain guide, who has 
need himself to be led. Allow yourself to become do- 
cile to the eccentric laws of opinion, and the slave of its 
imperious caprices, and follow it with the most earnest 
perseverance of loyalty ;" still it will finally terminate in 
condemning you. 

But hypocrisy opens against me, and feeble men ask 
me, if it be not dangerous, thus to inculcate contempt of 
opinion ? In following but a part of the ideas, which I 
announce, my readers might be led astray. The whole 
must be adopted, for a fair experiment of the result. A 
physician had chosen many plants, from which to form 



93 



a salutary decoction. His patient swallowed the juice 
of but one and was poisoned. 

Let us discard that timidity, which conducts to false- 
hood ; and, to subserve morals, let us be faithful to truth. 
The wicked and the sage alike break the yoke of opin- 
ion ; the former to increase his power of annoyance ; the 
latter that of doing good. 

I can conceive, that a depraved man will commit 
fewer faults, in yielding to the caprices of opinion, than 
in abandoning himself to his own errors. There are 
cruel passions and shameful vices, which he reproves 
even in the midst of his aberrations. But in doing so 
he gives to falsehood the name of politeness, and to 
cowardice the title of prudence. His favorite inculca- 
tion is, the terror of ridicule. To form true men, it 
is indispensable, that this precept should be engraven on 
their hearts — Fear nothing hut remorse. 

The simple and generous mind, that follows these les- 
sons, and is worthy of happiness, need not blush, in 
view of his course. Only let him march on with un- 
shrinking courage. In breaking the yoke of opinion, let 
him fly the still more shameful chains which the passions 
impose. In contemning the prejudices of the multitude 
dread still more those fatal instructers, who treat morali- 
ty as a popular fable, and pretend to the honor of dis- 
pelling our -errors. The aberrations of opinion prove 
only, that the most bold, not the most virtuous, press for- 
ward to announce their principles. These principles 
cannot annihilate that secret and universal opinion, that 
voice of conscience, without which the moral world 
would have presented only a chaos ; and the humane 
race w^ould have perished. Consult those men, vfhoi 



94 



have been instructed by the lessons of wisdom and expe- 
rience. Consult those whom you would choose to re- 
semble. Their first precept will be, that you de- 
scend into yourself. If we interrogate conscience, in 
good faith, she will enlighten us. She makes herself 
heard in the tumult of our vices, even against our will. 
If she become distorted, during the storm of our passions, 
she recovers the serenity of truth, as soon as that passes 
away; as a river, which has been agitated by a tempest, 
as soon as calm returns, reflects anew the verdure of the 
shores and the azure of heaven. 

If there were a people formed by sage laws, whose 
words were frank, and whose actions upright, there it 
would be a duty to hearken to the voice of opinion in 
religious silence ; and to follow its decrees, as though 
they were those of the divinity. Phocion asked, what 
foolish thing he had done w4ien the Athenians applaud- 
ed him ? Happy the country, where this would have 
been a criminal pleasantry, and where the pages of that 
chapter which condemns opinion ought to be torn out. 

Perhaps I may be accused of contradiction, in saying 
that, in the enlightened pursuit of happiness, the opinion 
of the multitude must be received with neglect; and 
yet, that it is pleasant to be esteemed by the society, of 
which we are members. We receive their services, and 
ought to know the pleasure of obliging them. We often 
share those weaknesses, which we censure in them. 
Our multiplied relations with them render their affection 
desirable. It may not be necessary to happiness ; but it 
gives to enjoyment a more vivid charm. 

May we be able, in pursuing the path indicated by 
wisdom, to obtain esteem, and taste the delight of a sen- 



95 



timent still pleasanter, and more precious. Friendship 
is, to esteem, what the flower is to the stem which sus- 
tains it. 

But I can never imagine, that we ought to become 
subservient to the caprices of opinion. We should first 
be satisfied with ourselves ; and afterwards, if it may be, 
with others. To merit affection, I perceive but two 
methods ; to love our kind, and to culti/ate those virtues 
which diffuse a charm over life. 



LETTER XII. 

OF THE SENTIMENT MEN OUGHT TO INSPIRE, 

There is no such being as a misanthrope. The men 
designated by this name, may be divided into many 
classes. In one class I see men of philosophic 
minds, revolted by our vices, or shocked by our contra- 
dictions, who censure these universal traits with a blunt 
frankness. Their disgust springs from the evils, which 
the universal follies of the age have shed upon our ca- 
reer. But if they really hated men, would they wield 
the pen of satire, in striving to correct them ? 

Another class consists of those unfortunate beings, who 
hope to find peace only in solitude. They fly a world 
which has pierced their heart with cruel wounds ; and 
perhaps avow, in words, an implacable hatred towards 
men. But their sensibility belies their avowal ; and we 
soothe their griefs, as soon as we ask their services. 



96 



Finally, there are those who strive only to render them- 
selves singular, who are really less afflicted, than 
whimsical ; rather officious than observing. These would 
tire us with the avowal of their love of mankind, if they 
did not deem that they render themselves more piquant 
and original by declaring that they hate them. 

We amy excuse indignation towards prejudices, contra- 
dictions and vices. But how can man have merited ha- 
tred or contempt ? Man is good. Such is his primitive 
character, which he can never entirely efface. Good, 
but seduced, erring and unhappy, he has claims upon 
our most tender interest. 

I do not propose to vex the question whether man is 
born good ? I consider him to be born without either 
virtue or vice. But as he advances in life, nature ar- 
ranges everything around him in such a manner, as 
ought to render him good. A mother is the first object 
that offers to his view. The first words which he hears 
express the tenderest affection. Caresses inspire his 
first sentiments ; and his first occupations are sports. 

Too soon, it is true, very different objects surround 
him. As he grows into life, he is struck with such a 
general spectacle of injustice, as reverses his ideas, and 
sours his character. But, although the contagion reaches 
him, and the passions and prejudices degrade him, some 
traits of his primitive goodness will always remain in his 
heart. 

Even those terrible enthusiasts, who thrust themselves 
forward in the effervescence of party, who, to give triumph 
to their cause, blow up the incipient flame of civil dis- 
cord, and with an unshrinking hand raise the sword of 
proscription, these fanatics may be strangers to every 



97 



liumane sentiment. Yet many of them are seen to love 
their wives and children with tenderness, and to preserve 
in the bosom of their family, so to speak, the germs of 
innocence. Robbers, the horror of society, whom the 
gibbet claims, honor themselves with some acts of hu- 
manity ; and tyrants have their days of clemency. 

During great calamities, natural sentiments develope 
themselves, and form a touching contrast with the scenes 
of horror with which they are surrounded. When a 
destructive conflagration is sweeping along a city, there 
are no distinctions, no animosities among the wretched 
sufferers, whom the same terror pursues. Enemies for- 
get their hatred, and partisans their, parties. The rich 
and poor cry out together. All love and aid each 
other. Misfortune has broken down the separating bar- 
riers of pride and prejudice, and they find each other 
good and equal. 

Even upon the theatre of war, where the spectacle of 
destruction excites an appetite to destroy, we often dis- 
cover affecting traces of humanity. At the siege of 
Mentz, in 1795, I remember that the advanced guards 
of the attack on the left, occupied an English garden, 
near the village of Montback. The garden was com- 
pletely destroyed. The walks and labyrinths were 
changed, by the trampling of the soldiers, into high 
roads. Batteries were raised upon the mounds, from dis- 
tance to distance, around which still grew rare trees and 
shrubs. The French bivouacs banished the verdure of 
the bowling greens ; and in advance of them, a half over- 
turned kiosk served for the front guard of the Austrians. 
The nearest water was on their side ; the nearest wood 
on the side of the French. To obtain water, the French 
9 



98 



threw their canteens to the Aiistrians, who filled them 
and sent them back again. When night drew on, the 
French soldiers, in return, cut wood for the Austrians, 
and dragged fagots between the videttes of the two ar- 
mies. Thus, waiting the signal to cut each other's throat, 
the advance guards lived in peace, and made exchanges 
like those between friendly people. This spectacle ex- 
cited in me a profound emotion ; and 1 was scarcely able 
to refrain from tears, in seeing men, so situated, still 
good, on a soil red with blood. ""^^ 

This primitive goodness is not the only beautiful trait 
which is continually developing to our view in human na- 
ture For men to be generous, and magnanimous, the 
soul never entirely loses the elevation, which it received 
from its author. 

Under oppression, in degradation, in slavery, men 
still preserve some impress of their first dignity. Those 
outrages which inflict personal humiliation, are among 
the most frequent causes of revolutions ; and, perhaps 
tyrants incur less danger in shedding the blood of citizens, 
than in insulting them. An outrage upon a woman was 
the signal of the liberty of Rome. A similar crime 
drew on the fall of the Pisistrati, who had found no ob- 
stacle in overturning the laws of their country. The 
Swiss and Danes supported the ligors of a tyrannic yoke 
in silence. They arose the first day in which their op- 
pressors exacted of them an act of degradation. Genoa 
had been conquered. An Austrian officer struck a man 
of the lower class. The indignant Genoese flew to arms, 
and drove away their conquerors. 

Under the most absolute despotism, we sometimes 
see the subjects preserving magnanimous sentiments; 



99 



and not being able to give them a useful direction, pu 
forth, to serve their master, a courage equal to that with 
which free citizens honor themselves in serving their 
country. Of this I might cite striking proofs from the 
history of even barbarous nations. 

A convincing demonstration, that an innate principle 
of elevation exists in the soul, results from the universal- 
ity of religious ideas. Man is discouraged by his errors? 
his infirmities and faults in vain. An interior voice ad- 
monishes him of his high destination. Transient as he 
is, and comparatively lost in the immensity of the uni- 
verse, he invokes the Divinity to sanctify the union of his 
espousals, and to preside over the birth of his infants. 
He raises his voice to him over the tombs of his fathers. 
When the contemplation of the works of the Eternal has 
inspired him with humble sentiments of himself, he 
still deems himself superior to all the beings that surround 
him. Occupying but a point on the globe, his disquiet- 
ing thoughts embrace the universe. He beholds time 
devouring the objects of his affections, crumbling monu- 
ments and overturning even the works of nature. From 
the midst of the ruins he aspires to immortality.^"^ 

What would not these sentiments, at once elevated 
and good, these precious germs produce, were they de- 
veloped by happy circumstances ! That they exist in 
the human bosom is a sufficient indication that we owe 
a tender interest to the being who possesses them. Let 
us love our kind, and cultivate the virtues which render 
us worthy of their affection. 



100 



LETTER XIIT. 

OF SOME OF THE VIRTUES. 

Placed in the midst of men, the most useful virtue is 
indulgence. To allow ourselves to become severe, is 
to forget how many good qualities we want ourselves ;' 
and from what faults we are preserved only by chance 
and our circumstances. It is to forget the weakness of 
men, and the empire exercised over them by the objects 
that surround them. To render exact justice to our 
kind, we ought to take into the estimate all the assistance 
and all the obstacles, with which they have met in their 
career. Thus weighing them, celebrated actions will 
become less astonishing, and faults begin to appear ex- 
cusable. 

By cultivating the spirit of indulgence, we learn the- 
happy secret of being well with ourselves, and well with- 
men. Some carry into their intercourse with the world 
an austere frankness. They are dreaded, and the op- 
position which they every day experience, increases their 
disagreeable and tiresome roughness, and their officious 
rudeness. Others, blushing at no complaisance, and 
equally supple and false, smile at what displeases them ; 
praise what they feel to be ridiculous ; and applaud what 
they know to be vile. Be indulgent, and you will not 
sacrifice self-esteem ; and your frankness, far from an- 
noying, will render your aiFabiiity more amiable. 

The less we occupy ourselves with the vices and ab- 
errations of men, the more pleasant does existence be- 
come. Indulgence carries its own recompense with it. 



101 



;lnd causes us to see our kind almost such as they 
should be. 

Let us extend a courageous indulgence towards those 
unfortunate beings, who are victims of long continued 
errors. Enough will be ready to assume the office of 
their accusers. Let us draw round them the veil of 
charity. I am aware that gloomy moralists will object 
to these views ; and call them easy principles, that en- 
courage the vices, flatter the passions, and excuse dis- 
orders. Believe me, the most easy and successful 
mode of reclaiming the wandering, is to carry encour- 
agement and hope to their hearts, and to have faith in 
their repentance.^^ 

Born in an age when every one professes to applaud 
toleration, far from adopting the real spirit, we scarcely 
know how to practise indulgence even towards abstract 
opinions, that differ from our own. Let us never forget 
the weakness and error of our own judgment and under- 
standing ; and then we shall possess an habitual temper 
of candor towards the views of others. In most instances, 
whenj^we say 'that man thinks rightly,' the phrase, whe 
translated, imports, ' that man thinks as 1 do.' 

Let us never forget that chance may have given us 
the opinions most dear to us. The ardent patron of this 
party, had he only been in a house contiguous to his 
own, would have had opinions and prejudices, the exac 
reverse of those he now reveres. It is not improbable 
that he might have died in the opposite ranks. 

A particular idea, which you formerly deemed cor- 
rect, at present seems false. Perhaps you may one day 
return to your first judgment. Let us accord, to our an- 
tagonist, a right which we frequently exercise for our- 
9* 



102 



selves, the rigbt to be deceived. During the contests 
of party, I have more than once seen the spectacle of 
two men changing their principles almost at the same 
moment, in such a manner, that one of them takes the 
place of the other in the faction, which, but a short time 
since, he professed to detest. Taking human nature as 
it is, into view, this does not astonish me. What I find 
strange is, that these two men should hate each other 
more than ever, and that it has become impossible to 
reconcile them, now that the one has espoused the opin- 
ion v^4lich the other held but a moment before. ^^ 

An essential truth that ought to be constantly an- 
nounced, is, that both political and religious opinions have 
much less influence than is commonly imagined upon 
the qualities of the heart. No verity has been so com- 
pletely demonstrated to my conviction. I have been 
corxversant with men of all parties. In every one I have 
met with persons full of disinterestedness and integrity. 
To esteem them, it was only necessary to remark the 
noble and unshrinking courage with which they were 
willing to suspend everything on the issue of their con- 
victions.^^ 

A crowd of useful reflections upon this subject natu- 
rally ofter, upon which it would be easy to enlarge. — 
The brevity of my plan impels me to other subjects. 
There is one quality, difficult to define, yet easily un- 
derstood, which always affects us pleasantly. It is a 
quality as rare as its eflects are useful ; and yet we have 
scarcely a specific term in our language by which fully 
to designate it. An obliging disposition is the common 
phrase that conveys it. Examine all the pleasant things 
of life, and you will find this disposition the pleasantest 



10^ 



of all. There often remains no memory of the benefits 
received. Of those we have rendered, something is al- 
ways retained. 

But what shall we say of the ungrateful ? We are 
told that they are formidable from their numbers and 
boldness, and that they people the whole earth. How 
eccentric and contradictory are the common maxims of 
the world ! We admit that we have a right to exact 
gratitude ; and yet wish that benefits should be for- 
gotten : I hold it wrong to depend upon gratitude, 
since the expectation will generally be deceived. — - 
On the contrary, I approve his course, who keeps an 
exact 'account of his good actions. In reading the 
record, he will one day taste a legitimate reward. What 
reading can be so useful ? To remember that we have 
done good in time past, is to bind us to beneficence in 
time to come. We hear it continually repeated, that it 
requires a sublime effort to do good to our enemies. — 
Men more zealous than enlightened have advanced, that 
the morality of the gospel has alone prescribed the ren- 
dering of good for evil. Evangelical duty is sufficiently 
elevated by being founded on the basis of higher sanctions 
and a future retribution | and rests not its claims upon 
new discoveries of what is true, beautiful and obligatory 
in morals. They who advocate that the grand maxims 
of evangelical morality are found nowhere else than in 
the gospel, seem to me to have committed two faults ; 
the one in advancing an error, the other in tending to es- 
trange men from the virtues they inculcate, by intimat- 
ing that their practice exacts more than human power. 
A writer of unquestionable piety, the late Sir William 
Jones found the grand maxim, ' do unto others as you 



104 



would wish ihem to do unto you,' implied in the 
discourses of Lysias, Thales and Pittacus, and, word for 
word, in the original of Confucius. The obligation to 
render good for evil, he affirms, is inculcated in the re- 
ligious books of the Hindoos and Arabians ; in confirma- 
tion of which he cites many passages from them. The 
sentiment of moralists has everywhere been graven up- 
on the human heart. It is enough that our Lord has 
sanctioned the sublime precepts that belong to our fahh 
with immortal recompenses ; and still more may we rely 
upon those sanctions, when we add to them the present 
pleasure of performing good actions.^^ 

Let us add, that m enjoining the gospel maxim to ren- 
der good for evil, we inculcate elevation of mind, the 
source of all the virtues. But christian moralists have 
too often been tempted to neutralize or destroy the effect 
of their precepts, by pushing them to absurd or impracti- 
cable lengths. To practise forgiveness, and to do good, 
are evangelical commands, as sublime as they are con- 
formable to our natural views of duty. To enjoin upon 
us to degrade ourselves in the estimate of our enemies^ 
by feeling and acting tow^ards them as though they were 
our friends, as some have understood the bearing of the 
christian precept, would be injurious and impracticable. 
Socrates pardoned his enemies, but preserved an impos- 
ing dignity. There was no abasement in the infinitely 
higher example of him, who, suffering on the cross, 
prayed for his murderers. 

If such are our obligations as men and Christians to- 
wards our enemies, what duties ought we not to fulfil to 
those benefactors who have steadily sought occasions to 
be useful to us, to ward off danger from us, and to re- 



105 



pair our misfortunes ? To such let us seek incessant 
opportunities of acquitting our debt. Gratitude will 
prolong the pleasure conferred by their benefits. 

Indulgence, and the desire to oblige, seem to me the 
two principal means of conciliating to ourselves the affec- 
tions of our kind. A virtue which at least commands their 
esteem is integrity. Not only is he who practises it, faithful 
to his engagements, since he allows no promises of his to be 
held slight, but his uprightness makes itself felt in all his 
actions, and frankness in all his conversation. The faults 
that he commits he is prompt to acknowledge ; he con- 
fesses them without false shame, and seeks neither to 
exaggerate nor extenuate them. Touching the inter- 
ests which are common to him and other people, he de- 
cides for simple justice ; and, in so awarding, does not 
deem that he injures himself, his first possession being 
his own self-respect. Without rendering me high ser- 
vices, he obliges me in the lesser charities, and procures 
me one of the most vivid pleasures I can taste, that of 
contemplating a noble character. 

Among the virtues which ought to secure a kind regard, 
we universally assign to modesty a high rank. A simple 
and modest man lives unknown, until a moment, which 
he could not have foreseen, reveals his estimable quali- 
ties and his generous actions. I compare him to the 
concealed flower springing from an humble stem, which 
escapes the view, and is discovered only by its perfume. 
Pride quickly fixes the eye, and he who is always his 
own eulogist, dispenses every other person from the ob- 
ligation to praise him. A truly modest man, emerging 
from his transient obscurity, will obtain those delightful 
praises which the heart awards without effort. His su- 



106 



perlority, far from being importunate, will become at- 
tractive. Modesty gives to talents and virtues the same 
charm which chastity adds to beauty. 

Let us carry into the world neither curiosity nor in- 
discretion. Curiosity is the defect of a little mind, which, 
not knowing how" to employ itself at home, feels the ne- 
cessity of being amused with the occupations of others. 
In relation to minute objects it is ridiculous. In impor- 
tant affairs it becomes odious. Let us know nothing 
about those debates, piques and parties, which it is not 
in our power to settle. 

An attribute so precious, that, in my eye, it becomes 
a virtue, is a gentle and constant equality of temper. — 
To sustain it, not only exacts a pure mind, but a vigor 
of understanding which resists the petty vexations and 
fleeting contrarieties which a multitude of objects and 
events are continually bringing. What an unalterable 
charm does it give to the society of the man who possesses 
it ! How is it possible to avoid loving him whom we are 
certain always to find with serenity on his brow and a 
smile in his countenance ? 

I foresee that our brilliant observers, as they run over 
these precepts, will say to me, ' you resemble those phi- 
losophers who trace the plan of a republic, without tak- 
ing into the account the passions of men or the state of 
society 5 a thousand times more unreasonable, than those 
writers of romance who publish their dreams as dreams. 
Your maxims upon indulgence will only awaken for you 
the pity due to good natured weakness. The maxim 
of the world is, be adroit to seize upon defects, and 
prompt to censure the weaknesses of men, that you may 
intimidate those who can only serve to annoy you ; and 



107 



give up to ridicule those who can only amuse you. Make 
a display of your desire to oblige. Pronounce senti- 
mental phrases with grace. Make dupes if you can ; but 
take care that you do not become one yourself, by having 
your own maxims practised upon you. Credit is not rev- 
enue, but a sum which becomes exhausted in propor- 
tion as you spend upon it, without replacing it. Ought 
I to be modest when so many examples prove that tal- 
ents are a small thing, if there be not subjoined the 
happy talent of making them known. The man who 
speaks of himself with modesty is believed upon his 
word ; and when I search for the causes of that admira- 
tion which certain personages have obtained, I can dis- 
cover no other than the long obstinacy and persevering 
intrepidity which they have put in requisition to praise 
themselves. There are eulogies which men give them- 
selves, of which, as ot the calumnies that they wipe out, 
some traces will always remain. Finally, opinion alone 
renders our qualities estimable ; and he who, with a view 
to succeed, should immediately cultivate the tawdry vir- 
tues which you celebrate, would be as ridiculous as he 
who should appear in society in the costume worn a cen- 
tury ago.' They who say this are as right, in their views, 
as I am in mine. If the interest with which our kind in- 
spires us, if our virtues cannot shield us from injustice, let 
us hold ourselves aloof from opinion, and while we allow 
the multitude their way of thinking, let it not disturb our 
repose. Among the circumstances essential to felicity, I 
count the attachment of some individuals, but not pop- 
ularity. 



108 



LETTER XIV. 



OF MARRIAGE. 



Since we cannot assure ourselves of the general affec- 
tion, nor even of the justice of men, it becomes our interest, 
in the midst of the great mass, that we cannot move, to 
create a little world, which we can arrange at the dispo- 
sal of our reason and affections. 

In this retreat, dictated to us alike by our instincts 
and our hearts, let us forget the chimeras which the 
crowd pursue ; and if the men of fashion and the world 
stare, ridicule, and even condemn us, let their murmurs 
sound in our ears as the dashing of the waves on the 
distant shore, to the stranger, under the hospitable roof 
which shelters him from the storm. 

The universe of reason and affection must be com- 
posed of a single family. Of that universe a wedded 
pair must be the centre. A wife is the best and the on- 
ly disinterested friend, by the award of nature. She re- 
mains such, when fortune has scattered all others.^ How 
many have been recalled to hope by a virtuous and af- 
fectionate wife, v\-hen all beside had been lost ! How 
many, retrieved from utter despondency, have felt ia an 
ineffable effusion of heart, that conjugal heroism and con- 
stancy were an ample indemnity for the deprivation of all 
other good things ! How many, undeceived by external 
illusions, have in this way been brought home to their 
real good ! If we wish to see the attributes of conjugal 
heroism, in their purest brilliancy, let us suppose the hus- 
band in the last degree of wretchedness. Let us im- 



109 



agine him not only culpable, but so estimated, and an 
outcast from society. Repentance itself, in the view of 
candor, has not been available to cloak his faults. She 
alone, accusing him not, is only prodigal of conso- 
lations. Embracing duties as severe as his reverses, 
she voluntarily shares his captivity or exile. He 
jSnds still, on the faithful bosom of innocence, a re- 
fuge, where remorse becomes appeased ; as in for- 
mer days, the proscribed found, at the foot of the 
altar, an asylum against the fury of men. 

Marriage is generally assumed as a means of increas- 
ing credit and fortune, and of assuring success in the 
world. It should be undertaken as a chief element of 
happiness, in the retirement of domestic repose."^ I 
would wish that my disciple, while still in the freshness 
of youth, might have reason and experience enough to 
select the beloved person, whom he would desire one 
day to espouse. I would hope, that, captivated with 
her dawning qualities, and earnestly seeking her hap- 
piness, he might win her tenderness, and find his satis- 
faction in training her to a conformity to his tastes, habits 
and character. 

The freshness of her docile nature demands his first 
forming cares. As she advances in life she is moulded 
to happy changes, adapted to supply his defects. She 
is reared modest, amiable, instructed, respectable, and 
respected ; one day to govern his family, and direct 
his house, by difiiising around the domestic domain, 
order and peace. Let neither romances, metaphysics, 
pedantry nor fashion render a qualification for these im- 
portant duties, either trifling or vulgar in her view. Still, 
domestic duties are by no means to occupy all her 
10 



110 



hours. The time which is not devoted to them will flow 
quietly on in friendly circles, not numerous, but anima- 
ted by gayety, friendship and the inexplicable pleasures 
which spring from intercourse with rational society. 
There are, also, more unimportant duties, which we 
expect her not to neglect. We wish her to occupy some 
moments at a toilet ; where simplicity should be the basis 
of elegance; and where native tact might develope 
the graces, and vary, and multiply, if I may so say, the 
forms of her beauty. In fine, the versatility of her 
modes of rendering herself agreeable, should increase 
the chances of always escaping ennui in her presence. 

But train women to visit a library as savans, and they 
will be likely to bring from it pedantry without solid in- 
struction ; and coquetry without feminine amiability. 
I would not be understood to question the capability of 
the female understanding. I am not sure that 1 would 
wish the wife of my friend to have been an author, 
though some of the most amiable and enlightened wo- 
men have been such. But I deem that in their men- 
tal constitution, and in the assignment of their lot, pro- 
vidence has designated them to prefer the graces to 
erudition ; and that to acquire a wreath of laurels, they 
must ordinarily relinquish their native crown of roses.^ 

When we see a husband and wife thus united by 
tenderness, good hearts and simple tastes, everything 
presages for them a delightful futurity. Let them live 
contented in their retirement. Instead of wishing to 
blazon, let them conceal their happiness, and exist for 
each other. Life will become to them the happiest of 
dreams. 

Perhaps the world will say, ' you speak, it may be, of 



Ill 



such a wife as you would be understood to possess 
yourself. But you do not paint marriage in the ab- 
stract, while you thus describe happiness as finding a 
habitation within the domestic walls, and pain and sor- 
row without : how many people find eternal ennui at 
home, and respire pleasure, only when they have fled 
their own threshold.' There are few wives so perfect, 
says La Bruyere, ' as to hinder their husbands from re- 
penting at least once in a day, that they have a wife ; or 
from envying the happiness of him who has none.' 

This sentence, instead of containing a just observation, 
is only an epigram. In looking round a circle of indi- 
viduals, ridiculously called the world, we shall find happy 
family establishments less rare than we imagine. Be- 
sides, it would be absurd to count among unhappy unions, 
all those which are not wholly exempt from stormy pas- 
sions. Not only is perfect felicity a chimerical expecta- 
tion on the earth, but we meet with many people who 
would be fatigued into ennui in a perfect calm, and who 
require a little of the spice of contrariety to season the 
repast of life. I would not covet their taste ; but there 
are modes of being singular, which, without imparting 
happiness, procure pleasures. Finally, supposing the 
number of unhappy marriages to be as immense as is 
contended, what is the conclusion.^ The great ma- 
jority adopting, as maxims of life, principles so different 
from mine, it would be strange if they obtained such 
results as I desire.^^ 

In these days, the deciding motive with parents, in 
relation to marriage, is interest ; and, what seems to me 
revolting in the spirit of the age, is, that the young have 
also learned to calculate. When a man marries simply 



112 



on a speculation of interest, if he sees his fortune and 
distinction secured, reign disorder and alienation in his 
house as they may, he is still happier than he deserves 
to be. 

Our marriages of inclination guaranty happiness no 
more than our marriages of interest. What results 
should be anticipated from the blind impulse of appetite ? 
Let there be mutual affection, such as reason can survey 
with a calm and severe scrutiny. Such love as is painted 
in romances is but a fatal fever. It is children alone 
who believe themselves in love, only when they feel 
themselves in a delirium. They have imagined that 
life should be a continual ecstasy ; and these indulged 
dreams of anticipation spoil the reality of wedded life. 
I have supposed the husband older than his wife. I have 
imagined him forming the character of his young, fair 
and docile companion ; and that, so to speak, they hav^e 
become assimilated to each other's tastes and habits. 
The right combination of reason and love assures for 
them, under such circumstances, as much as possible, 
a futurity of happiness. 

I might here speak of the misery of jealousy and in- 
fidelity, and the comparadve guilt of these vices in the 
husband and the wife. But these are sources of torment 
only in unions contracted and sustained by the maxims 
and the spirit of the world. According to my views 
these crimes could not mar the marriages which were 
undertaken from right motives, and under the approving 
sanction of severe reason. I, therefore, pass them by, 
as not belonging to my subject ; and as supposing that 
when marriage is the result of wise foresight and regu- 
lated choice, and when its duties are discharged from a 



113 



proper sense of their obligation, such faults can not 
occur. 

Another cause of disunion springs from the proud-r 
temper of some wives. They erroneously and obstinately 
persuade themselves that fidelity includes all their duty. 
More than one husband, incessantly tormented by an 
imperious and capricious wife, feels almost disposed to 
envy the gentle spouse who sleeps pleasantly under de- 
ceitful caresses. As much as an honest man ought to 
avoid crimes, in order to merit his reputation and sustain 
it, ought the highest meed awarded to women to be be- 
stowed, not on those alone who are chaste, but on those 
who know how to watch over the happiness of their 
family by eager attentions and studious cares. 

This petulance of temper is commonly supposed to be 
a conjoined attribute of conjugal fidelity. I have some- 
times seen wives both peevish and coquettish, and I can- 
not imagine a more odious combination. If we despise 
the man who is rough and slovenly at home, and be- 
comes charming in society, what sentiment does that 
wife merit who wears out her husband's patience with 
her arrogance, and puts on seducing graces, and affects 
sensibility, in the presence of strangers ? 

T have often heard men who were sensible upon every 
other subject, express their conviction that the orientals, 
in excluding their women from alt eyes but their own, 
had established the only reasonable domestic policy. 
There is no more wit than humanity in this barbarous 
sentiment, however frequently it is uttered. No one 
could be in earnest, in wishing to copy, into free institu- 
tions, this appalling vestige of slavery. But my inward 
respect for women withholds me from flattering them,. 



114 



Authority ought to belong to the husband ; and the in- 
fluence of tenderness, graces and the charms of con- 
stancy, gentleness and truth, constituting the appropriate 
female empire, belongs of right to the wife. 1 take 
leave to illustrate this phrase. Masculine vigor, and 
aptitude to contend and resist, clearly indicate that na- 
ture has confided authority to man. To dispossess him 
of it, and control him by a still more irresistible sway, 
it is necessary that the feeble sex should learn patience, 
docility, passive courage, and the management of their 
appropriate weapons in danger and sorrow, and to be- 
come energetic for the endurance of the peaceful cares 
of the domestic establishment. Man is formed by nature 
for the calls of active courage ; and woman, for the 
appalling scenes of pain and affliction, and the agony of 
the sick and dying bed. In a word, all argument apart, 
nature has clearly demonstrated to which sex authority 
belongs.^ 

I discover that the defects of man spring from the 
tendency of his natural traits, in which force predomi- 
nates, to run to excess. I see his gentle companion 
endowed with attributes and qualities naturally tending 
to temper his defects. The means she has received to 
reach this end announce that it is the purpose of nature 
that she should use them with this view. She has 
charms which, when rightly applied, none can resist. 
Her character is a happy compound of sensibility, wis- 
dom and levity. She has superadded a felicity of ad- 
dress which she owes to her organization, and which 
the reserve, that her education imposes, serves to de- 
velope. Thus the qualities, and even the imperfections 
of the two sexes serve to bring them together. It fol- 



115 



lows, that man should possess authority, and woman 
influence, for their mutual happiness. 

When the wife commands, 1 cease to behold a respect- 
able married pair. I see a ridiculous tyrant, and a still 
more ridiculous slave. It is vain to urge that she may 
be most capable of authority, and that her orders may 
be conformable to wisdom and justice. They are ab- 
surd, from the very circumstance that they are orders. 
The virtues which the husband ought to practise to- 
wards his wife must have their origin in love, which can 
only be inspired, and which flies alt restraint. In a 
single position, the wife honors herself in assuming au- 
thority. It is when reverses have overwhelmed and 
desolated her husband, so that, ceasing to sustain her 
and changing the natural order, she supports him. 
Grant that he receives hope as her gift ; grant that he is 
compelled to blush in imitating her example of courage; 
she aspires to this power no longer than to be able to re- 
store him to the place whence misery had cast him down.^ 

It is a truth that ought not to be contested, that dis- 
satisfied husbands and wives often love each other more 
than they imagine. Suppose them to believe them- 
selves indifferent ; and to seem so ; and even on the 
verge of mutual hate ; should one of them fall sick, we 
see the other inspired with sincere alarms. Suppose 
them on the eve of separation ; when the fatal moment 
comes, both recoil from the act. Habit almost causes 
the pains, to which we have been long accustomed, to 
become cause of regret when they cease. When the 
two begin mutually to complain of their destiny, I coun- 
sel each, instead of wishing to criminate and correct 
each other, to give each other an example of mutual 
forbearance and indulgence. It may be, that the cause 



116 



of their mutual dissatisfaction is unreal ; the supposed 
wrong not intended, the suspicion false. Candor and 
forgiveness will appease all. The husband may have 
gone astray only in thought ; which is beyond human 
privilege to fathom. The wife may have minor de- 
fects and an unequal temper, without forfeiting much 
excellence and many remaining claims to be loved. 
The morbid influence of ill health and irresistible tem- 
perament, in their powerful action upon the temper, 
may have been the source whence the faults flowed 
on either part ; and the mutual wrongs may thus 
have been, in some sense, independent of the will 
of the parties. Bound, as they are, in such intimate 
and almost indissoluble relations, before they give that 
happiness, which they hoped and promised, to the winds, 
let them exhaust their efforts of self-command and mu- 
tual indulgence, to bring back deep and true affection. 

The purest happiness of earth is, unquestionably, the 
portion of two beings wisely and fitly united in the bonds 
of indissoluble confidence and affection. What a touch- 
ing picture does Madame de Stael present in these lines : 
*I saw, during my sojourn in Ejigland, a man of the 
highest merit united to a wife worthy of him. One day, 
as we were walking together, we met some' of those 
people that the English call gipseys, who generally wan- 
der about in the woods in the most deplorable condition^ 
I expressed pity for them thus enduring the union of all 
the physical evils of nature. " Had it been necessary," 
said the affectionate husband, pointing to his wi>fe, " in 
order to spend my life with her, that I should have 
passed thirty years in begging with them, we would still 
have been happy.'* " Yes," responded the wife, ^^ the- 
happiest of beings." ' 



117 



LETTER XV 



CHILDREN, 



One of the happiest days, and, perhaps, the most 
beautiful of life, is when the birth of a child opens the 
heart of the parent to emotions j as yet) unknown .^^ Yet 
w^hat torments are prepared by this epoch 1 What pain- 
ful anxiety, what agonies their sufferings excite ! What 
terror, when we fear for their infant life ! These alarms 
terminate not with their early age. The inquietude with 
which their parents watch over their destiny fills every 
period of their life to their last sigh. 

The compensating satisfaction which they bring must 
be very vivid, since it counterbalances so many suffer- 
ings. In order to love them, we have no need to be 
convinced that they will respond to our cares, and one 
day repay them. If there be in the human heart one 
disinterested sentiment, it is parental love. Our tender- 
ness for our children is independent of reflection. We 
love them because they are our children. Their existence 
makes a part of ours ; or, rather, is more than ours. 
All that is either useful or pleasant to them, brings us a 
pure happiness, springing from their health, their gayety, 
their amusements. 

The chief end which we ought to propose to ourselves, 
in rearing them, is to train and dispose them so that 
they may wisely enjoy that existence which is accorded 
them. Of all the happy influences which can be brougbt 
lo bear upon their mind and mannerSi none is more 



118 



beneficial than the example of parental gentleness. The 
good Plutarch most eloquently advanced this doctrine 
in ancient time. Montaigne, Rousseau, M'Kenzie, and 
various writers of minor fame among the moderns, have 
reproduced his ideas, and, by their authority, have finally 
effected a happy revolution in education. I delight to 
trace the most important ideas thus reproduced by en- 
lightened and noble minds in different ages. It is chiefly 
by persevering in the system of the influence of gentle- 
ness that we may expect an ultimate melioration in the 
human character and condition. 

But scarcely has any such salutary change been ef- 
fected, before minds, either superficial or soured, see 
only the inconveniences which accompany it ; and, in- 
stead of evading or correcting them, would return to the 
point whence they started. We hear people regretting 
the decline of the severity of ancient education; and 
maintaining the wisdom of those contrarieties and vexa- 
tions which children used to experience ; ' a fitting disci- 
pline of preparation,' say they, 'to prepare them for the 
«orrov*'s of life.' Would they, on the same principle, inflict 
bruises and eontusions, to train them to the right endu- 
rance of those that carelessness or accident might bring? 
-' It is an advantage,' say they, ' to put them to an ap- 
prenticeship of pain at the period when the sorrow it 
inflicts is light and transient.' This mode of speaking, 
with many others of similar import, presents a combina- 
tion of much error with some truth. 

The sufferings of childhood seem to us trifling and 
easy to endure, because time has interposed distance 
between them and us ; and we have no fear of ever 
IBpeting them again. It does not cease to be a fact, 



119 



that the child that passes a year under the discipline of 
the ferule of a severe master, is as unhappy as a man 
deprived a year of his liberty. The latter, in truth, has 
less reason to complain ; since he ought to find, in the 
discipline of his reason, and his maturity and force of 
character, more powerful motives for patient endurance. 
Parents ! Providence has ])laced the destiny of your 
children in your hands. When you thus sacrifice the 
present to an uncertain future, you ought to have strong 
proof that you will put at their disposal the means of 
indemnification. If the sacrifice of the present to the 
future were indispensable, I would not dissuade from it. 
But my conviction is, that the best means of preparing 
them for the future may be found in rendering them as 
happy as possible for the present. If it should be your 
severe trial to be deprived of them in their early days, 
you will, at least, have the consolation of being able to 
say, ' I have rendered them happy during the short time 
they were confided to me.' Strive then, by gentleness, 
guided by wisdom and authority, to cast the sunshine of 
enjoyment upon the necessary toils and studies of the 
morning of their existence. 

It is the stern award of nature to bring them sorrows. 
Our task is to soothe them. I feel an interest when I 
see the child regret the trinket it has broken, or the bird 
it has reared. JNature in this way, gives them the first 
lessons of pain, and strengthens them to sustain the more 
bitter losses of maturer days. Let us prudently second 
the efforts of nature ; and to console the weeping child, 
let us not attempt to change the course of these fugitive 
ideas, nor to efiace the vexation by a pleasure. In un- 
avoidable suffering let the dawning courage and reason 



120 



find strength for endurance. Let us first share the re- 
grets, and gently bring the sufferer to feel the inutility of 
tears. Let us accustom him not to throw away his 
strength in useless efforts ; and let us form his mind to 
bear without a murmur the yoke of necessity. These 
maxims, I am aware, are directly against the spirit of 
modern education, which is almost entirely directed to- 
wards the views of ambition. 

But while I earnestly inculcate gentleness in parental 
oiscipline, I would not confound it with weakness. I 
disapprove that familiarity between parents and children 
which is unfavorable to subordination. Fashion is like- 
ly to introduce an injurious equality into this relation. 
I see the progress of this dangerous effeminacy with re- 
gret. The dress and expenditures which would former- 
ly have supplied ten children, scarcely satisfy at present 
the caprices of one. This foolish complaisance of pa- 
rents prepares, for the future husbands and wives, a task 
most difficult to fulfil. Let us not, by anficipating and 
preventing the wishes of children, teach (hem to be in- 
dolent in searching for their own pleasures. Their age 
is fertile in this species of invention. That they may 
be successful in seizing enjoyment, little more is requi- 
site to be performed on our part than to break their 
chains. 

There are two fruitful sources of torments for child- 
ren. One is, what the present day denominates polite- 
ness. It is revolting to me to see children early trained 
to forego their delightful frankness and simplicity, and 
learning artificial manners. We wish them to become 
little personages ; and we compel them to receive tire- 
some compliments, and to repeat insignificant formulas 



121 



of common-place flattery. In this way, politeness, des- 
tined to impart amenity to life, becomes a source of 
vexation and restraint. It would seem as if we thought 
it so important a matter to teach the usages of society, that 
they could never be known unless the study were com- 
menced in infancy. Besides, do we flatter ourselves, 
that we shall be able to teach children the modes and 
the vocabulary of politeness, without initiating them, at 
the same time, in the rudiments of falsehood ? They 
are compelled to see that we consider it a trifle. If we 
wish them to become flatterers and dishonest, I ask 
what more efficient method we could take? 

Labor is the second source of their sufferings. I 
would by no means be understood to dissuade from the 
assiduous cultivation of habits of industry. You may 
enable children to remove mountains, if you will contrive 
to render their tasks a matter of amusement and inter- 
est. The extreme curiosity of children announces an 
instinctive desire for instruction. But instead of profit- 
ing by it, we adopt measures which tend to stifle it. We 
render their studies tiresome, and then say that the young 
naturally tire of study .^^ 

When the parent is sufficiently enlightened to rear his 
child himself, instead of plying him with rudimental 
books, dictionaries and restraint, let him impart the first 
instructions by familiar conversation. Ideas advanced 
in this way are accommodated to the comprehension of 
the pupil, by mutual good feeling rendered attractive, 
and brought directly within the embrace of his mind. 
This instruction leads him to observe, and accustoms 
him to compare, reflect and discriminate, oflers the 
sciences under interesting associations, and inspires 
11 



122 



a natural thirst for instruction. Of all results which ed- 
ucation can produce, this is the most useful. A youth 
of fifteen, trained in this way, will come into possession 
of more truths, mixed with fewer errors, than much 
older persons reared In the common way. He will be 
distinguished by the early maturity of his reason, and by 
his eagerness to cultivate the sciences, which, instead of 
producing fatigue or disgust; will every day give birth to 
new ideas and new pleasures. I am nevertheless little 
surprised, that the scrupulous advocates of the existing 
routine should insist that such a method tends to form 
superficial thinkers. I can only say to these profound 
panegyrists of the present order of instruction, that the 
method which I recommend, was that of the Greeks. — 
Their philosophers taught while walking In the shade of 
the portico or of trees, and w^ere ignorant of the art of 
rendering study tiresome, and not disposed to throw 
over it the benefits of constraint. Modern instructers 
ought, therefore, to find that they were shallow reason- 
ers, and that their poets and artists could have produc- 
ed only crude and unfinished efforts.'^'^ 

Besides, this part of education is of trifling impor- 
tance, compared with the paramount obligation to give 
the pupil robust health, pure morals, and an energet- 
ic mind. I deeply regret that the despotic empire of 
opinion Is more powerful than paternal love. Instead of 
gravely teaching to your son the little arts of shining in 
the world, have the courage to say to him, ' oblige those 
of thy kind whose sufferings thou canst lighten, and ex- 
hibit a constant and universal example of good morals. 
Form, every evening, projects necessary for enjoying a 
happy and useful succeeding day.' Thus you will see 



123 



him useful, good and happy, if not great in the world's 
estimation. You will behold him peacefully descending 
the current of time. In striking the balance with life, 
he will be able to say, I have known only those suffer- 
ings which no wisdom could evade, and no efforts repel. 
But such are the prejudices of the age, to give such 
counsels to a son requires rare and heroic courage. 

Is not that filial ingratitude, of which parents so gen- 
erally complain, the bitter fruit of their own training ? — 
You fill their hearts with mercenary passions, and with 
measureless ambition. You break the tenderest ties, 
and send them to distant public schools. Your children, 
in turn, put your lessons to account, and abandon your 
importunate and declining age, if you depend on them, 
to mercenary hands. When they were young, you rid- 
iculed them out of their innocent recklessness, and frank- 
ness, and want of worldly wisdom. You vaunted to 
them that ambition and those arts of rising, which, put in 
practice, have steeled their hearts against filial piety, as 
well as the other affections that belong not to calcula- 
tion. Since the paramount object of your training was 
to teach them to shine, and make the most out of every- 
body, you have at least a right to expect from their van- 
ity, pompous funeral solemnities. I revere that indica- 
tion of infinite wisdom, that has rendered the love of the 
parent more anxious and tender than that of the child. 
The intensity of the affections ought to be proporfionate 
to the wants of the beings that excite them. But ingrat- 
itude is not in nature. Better training would have pro- 
duced other manners. In rearing our children with 
more enlightened care, in inspiring them with moderate 
desires, in reducing their eagerness for brilliancy and dis^ 



124 



tinction, we shall render them happy, without stifling 
their natural filial sentiments ; and we shall thus use the 
best means of training them to sustain and soothe ourl^t 
moments, as we embellished their first days."^^ 



LETTER XVI. 



OF FRIENDSHIP, 



Let us bring within the family circle a few persons of 
amiable manners and simple tastes. Our domesUc re- 
treat may then become our universe. But we must 
search for real friends, with capabilities for continuing 
such. If interest and pleasure break the accidental ties 
of a day, shall friendship, which was always a stranger 
to the connexion, be accused of the infraction ? 

A real friend must not be expected from the common 
ties of vulgar interest ; but must be, in the circle to which 
he belongs, as a brother of adoption. So simple should 
be our confidence in the entireness of his afi?ection,and the 
disinterestedness and wisdom of his advice, as to incline 
us to consult him without afilicting our wife or children 
by a useless communication of our perplexities. To him 
we should be able to confide our fears ; and while we 
struggle, by his advice and aid to escape the pressing 
evil which menaces to overwhelm us, our family may 
still repose in tranquil security .^^ 

If he suffer in turn, we share his pains. If he have 
pleasures, we reciprocally enjoy them. If either party 



125 



experience reverses, instead of finding himself alone in 
misery, he receives consolations so touching and tender, 
that he ceases to complain of a lot which has enabled 
him to become acquainted with the depth of the re- 
sources of friendship. 

How pure is the sentiment, how simple the pleasures, 
which flow from the Intercourse of two men united by 
similar opinions and like desires, who have both cultiva- 
ted letters, the arts, and true wisdom ! With what 
rapidity the moments of these charming conversations 
fly ! Even the hours consecrated to study are less 
pleasant, perhaps less instructive. Such a friend, so to 
speak, is of a different nature from that of the rest of 
men. They either conceal our defects, or cause us to 
see them from motives of 111 feeling. A friend so dis- 
cusses them. In our presence, as not to wound us. He 
kindly reproaches us with faults, to our face, which he 
extenuates, or excuses before others In our absence. 
We can never fully comprehend to what extent a friend 
may be useful and dear until after having been a long 
time the faithful companion of his good and evil fortune. 
What emotions we experience in giving ourselves up to 
the remembrance of the common perils, storms and 
trials we have experienced together ! It is never without 
tenderness of heart that we say, ' we have had the same 
thoughts, affections and hopes. Such an event pene- 
trated us with common joy ; such another filled us 
with grief. Uniting our efforts, we rescued a vic- 
tim of poverty and misfortune. We mutually shared 
his tears of gratitude. The hard necessity of circum- 
stances separated us ; and our paths so diverged that 
seas and mountains divided us. But we still remained 
11* 



126 



present to each other, in communion of thought. He 
had fears for me, and I for him, as we foresaw each 
other's dangers. I learned his condition, interpreted 
his thoughts and feelings, and said, ' such a fear agitates 
him ; he forms such a project, conceives such a hope/ 
Finally, we met again. What charms, what effusion of 
heart in the union !' 

It is a puerile absurdity to be proud of the reputation 
of one to whom we are united by the ties of blood — a 
distinction which nature gave us. But we may be 
justly proud of the rare qualities of our friend. The 
ties of this relation are not the work of nature or contin- 
gency. We prove that, in meriting his esteem, we, at 
least, resemble him in the qualities of his heart. 

I immediately form a high opinion of the man whom 
I hear earnest in the applause of the talents or virtues 
of his friend. He possesses the qualities which he ap- 
plauds ; since he has need to affirm their existence in 
the person he loves. 

This noble and pure sentiment has had its peaceable 
heroes. What names, what examples could I not cite, 
in ancient and in modern times ! What splendid and 
affecting proofs of identity of fortune, joys and sorrows, 
and even danger and death ! I knew two friends, of 
whom every one spoke with respect. One of them was 
asked the extent of his fortune ? ' Mine is small,' he 
replied, ' but my friend is rich.' The other, a few days 
before he died of a contagious disease, asked, ^why so 
many persons were allowed to enter his chamber .'' No 
one,' he added, ' ought to be admitted but my friend.' 
Thus were they one in fortune, in life and in death.^^ 

I deem, that even moralists have sought to render 
this peaceable sentiment, this gentle affection, and the 



127 



only one exempt from storms, too exclusive. I am 
aware, how much our affections become enfeebled, in 
proportion as their objects multiply. There is force in the 
quaint expression of an old author. ' Love is like a large 
stream which bears heavy laden boats. Divide it into 
many channels, and they run aground.' Still, we may 
give the honored name of friend to several, without pro- 
faning it, if there exist between us mutual sympathy, 
high esteem and tender interest ; if our pleasures and 
pains are, in some sense, common stock, and we are 
reciprocally capable of a sincere devotion to each other's 
welfare. As much, however, as I revere the real senti- 
ment, I am disgusted by the sickly or exaggerated af- 
fectation of it. 

The sentiment is still more delightful when inspired 
by a woman. I shall be asked, if it can exist in its 
purity between persons of the different sexes ? I answer 
in the affirmative, when the impulses of youth no longer 
agitate the heart. We then experience the whole charm 
of the sentiment, as the difference of sex, which is never 
entirely forgotten, imparts to it a vague and touching 
tenderness and an ideal delight for which language is too 
poor to furnish terms. 

Why can love and friendship, the sunshine of exist- 
ence, decay in the heart? Why are they not eternal? 
But since it is not so, if we are cruelly deceived in our 
affections, the surest means of medicating our pain is, 
instead of cherishing misanthropic distrust, to look round 
and form the same generous ties anew. Has your friend 
abandoned you ? or, worse, has your wife become unwor- 
thy of your love ? It is better to be deceived a thousand 
times than to add, to the grief of wounded affection, the 



128 



insupportable burden of general distrust, misanthropy 
and hatred. Let these baneful feelings never usurp the 
place of those sentiments which must constitute human 
happiness. Pardon to those by whom you have been 
loved, the sorrows which their abandonment has caused 
youj in consideration of those days of the past which was 
embellished by their friendship. 

But these treasons and perfidies are only frequent in 
the intercourse of those who are driven about by the 
whirlwinds of life ; in which so many opposing interests, 
so many deceitful pleasures confuse and separate men. 
The simple minded and good, whose days flow plea- 
santly in retreat, every day value more the price of those 
ties that unite them. Their happiness is veiled and 
guarantied by a guardian obscurity. 

I give place to none of the illusions of inexperience 
in regard to men.^"^ The errors, contradictions and 
vices with which they are charged, exist. I admit that 
the greater part of satires are faithful paintings. But 
there are still to be found, everywhere, persons whose 
manners are frank, whose heart is good, and whose tem- 
per amiable. These persons exist in sufficient numbers 
to compose this new world of which I have spoken. 
Writers are disposed to declaim against men. I have 
never ceased to feel good will towards my kind. I 
have chosen only to withdraw from the multitude, in 
order to select my position in the centre of a small soci- 
ety. For me there are no longer stupid or wicked 
people on the earth. 

I have examined the essential things of life, tranquil- 
lity and independence of mind, health, competence and 
the affection of some of our kind. I wish now to give my 



129 



observations something more of detail and diversity. 
But 1 wish it still to be borne in mind, that I give only 
tlie materials and outlines of an essay, and make no pre- 
tensions to fill out a complete treatise. 1 wish that a 
temple may be raised to happiness. Hands, more skil- 
ful than mine, will rear it. It is sufficient to my pur- 
pose to indicate those delightful sites, in the midst of 
which it may be erected. 



LETTER XVII. 

THE PLEASURES OF THE SENSES. 

Nature has decreed, that each one of our senses 
should be a source of pleasure. But if we seek our 
enjoyment, only in physical sensations, the same stern 
arbiter has enacted, that our capability of pleasure should 
soon be exhausted, and that, palled and disgusted, we 
should die without having known true happiness. ^^ 

Exactly in proportion as pleasures are less associat- 
ed with the mind, their power to give us any perma- 
nent satisfaction is diminished. On the contrary, they 
become vivid and durable, precisely in the degree in 
which they awaken and call forth moral ideas. They 
become celestial, when they connect the past with the 
present, the present with the future, and the whole with 
heaven. 

In proportion as we scrutinize the pleasures of the 
senses, we shall always find their charm increasing in 



130 



the same degree, as losing, if I may so say, their phy- 
sical stain, they rise in the scale of purification, and be- 
come transformed, in some sense, to the dignity of mor- 
al enjoyments. 

I look at a painting : it represents an old man, a 
child, a woman giving alms, and a soldier, whose at- 
titude expresses astonishment. I admire the fidelity, 
the truth and coloring of the picture ; and my eye is 
intensely gratified. But remaining ignorant of the sub- 
ject, I go away, and the whole shortly vanishes from my 
memory. 1 see it again ; and am now struck with the 
inscription at the bottom, ^Date oholum Belisario.^ I re- 
member an interesting passage of history. A crowd of 
moral images throng upon my spirit : I soften to tender- 
ness; and I comprehend the affecting lesson, which the ar- 
tist is giving me. I review the painting, again and again ; 
and thrill at the view of the blind warrior, and of the child 
holding out his helmet to receive alms. 

When we travel, those points of view in the landscape 
which long fix our eye, are those which awaken ideas 
of innocence and peace ; affecting the heart with asso- 
ciations connected with the morning of our life ; or ideas 
of that power and immensity, which move and elevate 
the soul. The paintings of nature, as well as those of 
men, are thus capable of being embellished by moral as- 
sociations. In travelling, I perceive a delightful isle 
embosomed in a peaceful lake. While I contemplate 
it, with the simple pleasure excited by a charming land- 
scape, I am told that it is inhabited by a happy pair, 
who were long crossed and separated ; but who wore 
out the persevering opposition of fortune ; and are now 
living there in the innocence and peace of the first ten- 



131 



ants of paradise. How different an interest the landscape 
now assumes ! 1 behold the happy pair, without care or 
regret, sheltered from jealous observation, enjoying the 
dream of their happy love, gratefully contemplating the 
Author of the beautiful nature around them, and elevat- 
ing their love and their hearts, as a sacrifice to him. 

Sites, which, in themselves, have no peculiar charm, 
become most beautiful as soon as they awaken touching 
remembrances. Suppose yourself cast by misfortune 
on the care of a stranger in a strange land. He at- 
tempts to dispel yonr dejection, and says, • these coun- 
tries are hospitable, and nature here puts forth all her 
opulence ; come, and enjoy it with us.' The gay land- 
scapes, which spread before you, all assume the appear- 
ance of strangers ; and offer no attractions. But while 
your eye traverses the scenery with indifference, you 
see blue hills melting into the distant horizon. No per- 
son remarks them, but yourself. They resemble the 
mountains of your own country, the scenes upon which 
your infant view first rested. You turn away to con- 
ceal the new emotions, and your eyes are filling with 
tears. You continue to gaze fondly on those hills, dear 
to memory. In the m.idst of a rich landscape, they are 
all that interests you. You return to review them every 
day, and demand of them their treasured remembrances 
and illusions, — the dearest pleasures of your exile.^^ 

All the senses would offer me examples, in illustra- 
tion of this idea. Deprive the pleasures of physical love 
of moral associations, which touch the heart, and you 
take from it all that elevates the enjoyment above that 
of the lowest animals. Else, why do modesty, inno- 
cence, the expression of unstained chastity, and the 



132 



graces of simplicity possess such enchanting attractions ? 
The truth, that there exists in love a charm stronger 
than physical impulse, is not unknown even to women 
of abandoned manners. The most dangerous of all those 
in this unhappy class, are they, who, not relying on 
their beauty, feign still to possess, or deeply to regret 
those virtues, which they have really cast away. 

There are useful duties upon this subject, which I 
should find it difficult to present in our language. In 
proportion as the manners of a people reach the extreme 
refinement of artifice and corruption, their words be- 
come chaste. It is a final and sterile homage rendered 
to modesty. 

The last delights which imagination can add to the 
pleasures of love, are not to be sought in those vile places 
where libertinism is an art. We must imagine the first 
wedded days of a young and innocent pair, whose spirits 
are blended in real afiection, in similar tastes, pursuits 
and hopes, who realize those vague images which they 
had scarcely allowed before to float across their mind. •; 

They who seek in the pleasures of taste only physi- 
cal sensations, degrade their minds and finish their use- 
less existence in infirmity and brutal degradation. The 
pleasures of taste should only serve to render the other 
enjoyments more vivid, the imagination more brilliant, 
and the pursuits of life more easy and pleasant. — 
All objects should present themselves under a gay as- 
pect. A happy veil should shroud those pains which 
have been, or are to be endured. Even the wine cup, 
more powerful than the waters of Lethe, should not 
only procure forgetfulness of the past, but embellishment 
of the future. 



133 



The pleasures derived from odors are only vivid, when 
they impart to the mind a fleeting and vague exaltation. 
If the orientals indulge a passion for respiring perfumes, 
it is not solely to procure pleasurable physical sensations. 
An embalmed atmosphere exalts the senses, and disposes 
the mind to pleasant revery, and paints dreams of para- 
dise upon the indolent imagination. 

Were I disposed to present the details of a system up- 
on this subject, the sense of hearing v^ould offer me a 
crowd of examples. The brilliant and varied accents 
of the nightingale are ravishing. But what a difference 
between hearing the melody from a cage, and listening to 
the song at the noon of night, when a cool and pure air 
refreshes the lassitude of the burning day, and we behold 
objects by the light of the moon, and hear the strains of 
the solitary bird poured from her free bovver! 

A symphony, the sounds of which only delight the ear, 
would soon become wearying. If it have no other de- 
terminate expression, it ought, at least, to inspire revery, 
and produce an effect not unlike that of perfumes upon 
the orientals. 

Suppose we have been at an opera, got up with all 
the luxury of art. Emotions of delight and astonishment 
rapidly succeed each other, and we believe it impossi- 
ble to experience new sensations of pleasure. ]n re- 
turning home, we chance to hear in the distance, through 
the stillness of night, a well remembered song of our 
infancy, that was sung to us by some one dear to 
our memory. It is at once a music exciting more 
profound emotion, than all the strains of art which we so 
recently thought could not be surpassed. The remem- 
brances of infancy and home rush upon the spirit, and 
12 



134 



efface the pompous spectacle, and the artificial graces of 
execution.^^ 

Observations to the same effect might be multiplied 
without end. If you desire pleasures, fertile in happy 
remembrances, if you wish to preserve elevation of mind 
and freshness of imagination, choose, among the pleasures 
of the senses, only those which associate with moral 
ideas. Feeble, when separated from the alliance of 
those ideas, they become fatal when they exclude them. 
To dare to taste them, is to sacrifice happiness to pleas- 
ures which are alike ephemeral and degrading. It is to 
resemble him, who should strip the tree of its flowers, to 
enjoy their beauty. He loses the fruits which would 
have followed, and scarcely casts his eye on the flowers 
before they have faded. 



LETTER XVIII. 

THE PLEASURES OF THE HEART. 

The Creator has put forth in his gifts, a magnificence 
which should impress our hearts. What variety in those 
affectionate sentiments, of the delights of which our na- 
tures are susceptible ! Without going out of the family cir- 
cle, I enumerate filial piety, fraternal affection, friendship, 
love, and parental tenderness. These different sentiments 
can all coexist in our hearts, and, so far from weaken- 
ing each other, each tends to give vigor and intensity to 
the other. No doubt, the need of so many affections 



135 



and props attests our feebleness and dependence. But I 
can scarcely conceive of the happiness, which a being, 
impassible to weaknesses and wants, could find in him- 
self. I am ready to bless that infirmity of our natures, 
which is the source of such pure pleasures, and such 
tender affections. 

Let us avoid confounding that sensibility which ex- 
acts the pleasures of the heart, with that which pro- 
duces impassioned characters. They differ as essen- 
tially as the genial, vital warmth, from the burning of a 
fever. Indolence, objects calculated strongly to strike 
the imagination, and those maxims which corrupt the 
understanding, develope a vague and ardent sensibility, 
which sometimes conducts to crime, and always to mis- 
ery. The other species is approved by reason and pre- 
served by virtue. We owe to it those pure emotions 
which impart upon earth an indisdnct sentiment of the 
joys of heaven. 

There are men, however, who dread genuine sensi- 
bility ; and, under the conviction that it will multiply their 
pains, study to eradicate the germs of it from their soul. 

Hume was unhappily an unbeliever ; but I might easi- 
ly cite from his life many honorable traits indicative of 
a good natural disposition. He remarked to a friend, 
who confided to him his secret sorrows, ' you entertain 
an interna] enemy, who will always hinder you from be- 
ing happy. It is your sensibility of heart.' 'What!' 
responded his friend with a kind of terror, ' have you not 
sensibility ?' ' No. My reason alone s]>eaks, and it de- 
clares that it is right to soothe distress.' 

In listening to this reply of Hume, we are at once 
struck with the idea, that the greater part of those who 



3 36 



adopt his principles, do not pause at the same point with 
their model. They sink into lliat heardess class, who 
see all human calamities with a dry eye, provided they 
have no tendency to ahridge their own enjoyments. 

Suppose even that they pursue the lessons of the 
Scotch philosopher to better purpose ; and without any 
emotion, without any impulse of heart, hold out a suc- 
coring hand to those who suffer. This, perhaps, may 
answer the claims of reason. But the social instinct will 
always repel that austere morality, which would give to 
the human heart an unnatural insensibility, and deprive it, 
if I may so say, of its amiable weakness. I would hardly 
desire to see a man oppose a courage, too stoical, to his 
own miseries. The natural tears which he sheds in ex- 
treme affliction, are his guaranty for the sympathy which 
he will feel for my sorrows. 

It is a vile but common maxim, that two conditions 
are necessary to success in life. The one is, to have a 
selfish heart. The other, the adage of egodsm, is, that 
to avoid suffering, we must stifle sensibility. I say to 
these heartless philosophers of the world, that if the only 
requisite is to avoid suffering, through destitution of feel- 
ing, to die is the surest method of all.^'' 

The secret of happiness does not consist in avoiding 
all evils ; for in that case, we must learn to love nothing. 
If there be a lot on earth worthy of envy, it is that of a 
man, good and tender hearted, who beholds his own cre- 
ation in the happiness of all who surround him. Let 
him who would be happy, strive to encircle himself with 
happy beings. Let the happiness of his family be the 
incessant object of his thoughts. Let him divine the sor- 
rows and anticipate the wishes of his friends. Let him 



137 



inspire the fidelity of affection in his domestics, by pledg- 
ing to them a comfortable and pleasant old age. Let 
him, as far as may be, preserve the same servants, and 
give them all needed succor and counsel. In fine, let 
the inmates and dependents of the house all respire a 
calm and regulated happiness. Let even the domestic 
animals know, that humanity presides over their condition. 

Entertaining such views, it will be easy to see in what 
light I contemplate those men who take pleasure in wit- 
nessing the combats of animals. What man who has a 
heart, can see spectacles, equally barbarous and detest- 
able, with satisfaction ; such as dogs tearing to pieces 
a bull, exhausted with wounds, cocks mangling each 
other, the encounter of brutal boxers, or of bad boys in 
the streets, encouraged to the diabolical sport of fighting ? 
These are the true schools of cowardly and savage fe- 
rocity, and not of manly courage, as too many have sup- 
posed.'*^ But it is not my purpose to draw a painting 
in detail of the abominations of cruelty, or the pleasures 
of beneficence, and I resume my rapid and desultory 
reflections. 

To preserve the sentiments of beneficence and sensi- 
bility, let us avoid the pride which mars them. Benefi- 
cence in one respect resembles love. Like that, it courts 
concealment and the shade. 

The most useful direction we can give to beneficence 
is, to multiply its gifts as widely as possible. Let us 
avoid imitating those men who are always fearful of being 
deceived by those who solicit their pity. In an uncer- 
tainty whether or not you ought to extend succor, grant it. 
It can only expose you to the error that is least subject 
to repentance. ^^ 

12* 



138 



Offer useful counsels and indulgent consolations. Save, 
from despair, the unfortunate victim, who groans under 
the remorse of an unpremeditated fault. Unite him 
again to society by those cords which his imprudence 
has broken. Rekindle in him the love of his kind, by 
saying to him, ' though you may not recover innocence, 
repentance can at least restore your virtue.' 

If we have access to the opulent and powerful, we 
have an honorable, but difficult task to fulfil. To assume 
the often thankless office of soliciting frequent favors for 
friends, without losing the consideration necessary to suc- 
cess, requires peculiar tact, discernment and dignity. — 
Above all, it requires disinterested zeal. In attempting 
this delicate duty in the form of letters, we may soon dis- 
sipate our slender fund of credit. Letters of recommen- 
dation resemble a paper currency. They are redeem- 
ed in specie so long as they are issued discreetly, and in 
small amounts, but which become worse than blank pa- 
per, as soon as we multiply them too far.'*^ 

Such is the intrinsic attraction of beneficence, that 
even if we refuse to practise it, w^e still love whatever re- 
traces its image. A romance affects us. Pathetic 
scenes soften our hearts at the theatre. In thus em- 
bracing the shadow, we pay a sublime testimonial to the 
substance. 

The example of beneficence so readily finds its way 
to every heart, that we are affected even in thinking of 
those who practise it. The coldest hearts pay a tribute 
of veneration to those women, who, in consecrating them- 
selves to the service of the poor and the sick, encounter 
extreme fatigue, disgust, and often abuse from the wretch- 
ed objects themselves, in the squalidness and filth of 



139 



prisons and hospitals. How beautiful to learn to put 
forth patience to mitigate the maladies of the body, and 
hope, to soothe those of the mind H^ Ye, who practise 
virtues thus touching and sublime, may well hope the 
highest recompenses of heaven. Such alone are worthy 
of your pure spirits. Ye seem to have passed in light 
across our dark sphere, only to fulfil a transient and ce- 
lestial mission, to return again to your country. 



LETTER XIX 



THE PLEASURES OF THE UNDERSTANDING. 

In the savage man the intellectual faculties sleep. As 
soon as his appetites are satisfied, he sees neither plea- 
sures to desire, nor pains to fear. He lies down and 
sleeps again. This negative happiness would bring 
desolation to the heart of a civilized man. All his facul- 
ties have commenced their development. He experi- 
ences a new craving, which occupations, grave or futile, 
but rapidly changed and renewed, can alone appease. 
If there occur between them intervals which can be 
filled neither by remembrances, nor by necessary repose, 
lassitude and ennui intervene, and measure for him the 
length of these chasms in life by sadness. 

The next enemy to happiness, after vice, is ennui. 
Some escape it without much seeming calculation. My 
neighbor every morning turns over twenty gazettes, 
the state articles of which are copied the one from tlie 



140 



other. Economising the pleasure of this reading, and 
gravely reposing in the intervals, he communicates, 
sometimes with an oracular tone, sometimes with a 
modest reserve, his reflections to those who surround 
him ; and, at length, leaves the reading room w^ith the 
importance of one who feels that he has discharged a 
debt to society. 

In public places, it is not the spectacles, but the emo- 
tions of the common people who behold them, that are 
worthy of contemplation. In the murder of a poor tra- 
gedy by poorer actors, what transports from this enthu- 
siastic mass of the audience when a blow of the poniard, 
preceded by a pompous maxim, lays the tyrant of the 
piece low ! What earnest feeling, what sincere tears do 
w^e witness ! How much more w^orthy of envy these 
honest people who lose their enjoyment neither by the 
revolting improbability of the situations, nor by the ab- 
surdity of the dialogue, nor by the mouthing of the re- 
hearsal, than those fastidious critics who exalt their in- 
tellectual pride at the expense of these cheap enjoy- 
ments I 

From the moment in which a man feels sincere 
pleasure in cultivating his understanding, he may date 
defiance to the fear of the weight of time. He has the 
magic key which unlocks the exhaustless treasury of 
enjoyments. He lives in the age and country which he 
prefers. Space and time are no longer obstacles to his 
happiness. He interrogates the wise and good of all 
ages and all countries ; and his conversations with them 
cease, or change object, as soon as he chooses. How 
much gratitude does he owe the author of nature for having 
impressed on genius so many different impulses ! With 



141 



Plato, be is among the sages of Greece, hearing their 
lessons and associating his wishes with theirs for the 
happiness of his kind.'^^ In the range of history, he 
ascends to the infancy of empires and time. Does he 
court repose ? Horace bids him gather the roses before 
they fade ; or Shakspeare reminds him, when illusions 
will vanish like the baseless fabric of a vision. 

If a man has powers and acquirements, it is a great 
evil, if he is disposed to fatigue others with his self-love. 
If we could number all the subjects of which the most 
accomplished scholar is ignorant, we should perceive 
that the interval between him and a common person 
is not so immense as he may imagine. Ought he to 
be astonished if the real friends of the Muses tire of his 
declamations, his recitations and occupancy witli himself? 

To attain truth should be the real end of all study. 
In such researches the mind kindles, as by enchantment, 
at every step ! The desire to succeed, produces that 
noble emotion which is aKvays developed by ardent zeal 
mid pure intentions. Success, although we were to 
think nothing of its results, inspires a kind of pleasure ; 
because truth comports with our understanding, as bril- 
liant and soft colors agree with the eye, or pleasant 
sounds whh the ear. This enjoyment naturally asso- 
ciates with another still more vivid. The effect of truth 
is universally salutary ; and every instance in which our 
feeble intellect discovers some gleams, elevates the 
spirit, and intimately penetrates it with a high degree of 
happiness. 

One of the chief advantages of study is, that it en- 
franchises the mind from those prejudices that disturb 
life. How many, and what agonizing torments have 



]42 



been caused by those which are associated with false 
ideas of religion. ^^ After those great calamities in the 
dark ages which destroyed the traces of the sciences 
and arts, men, pursued by terror, seemed to imagine 
that they constantly saw malevolent spirits flying among 
the clouds or wandering in the depth of woods. The 
sound of strong wind and thunder came to their ear as the 
voice of infernal divinities ; and, prostrate with terror, 
they sougiit to appease their angry gods by bloody sacri- 
fices. In process of time, a small number of men, en- 
lightened by obser\^atiGn, dared to raise the veil by 
degrees, and succeeded in dissipating these terrors by 
tracing the seeming prodigies to some of the simplest 
laws of physics. The phantoms of superstition vanished, 
and, in the light of reason, revealed a just and benefi- 
cent Divinity presiding over obedient nature. 

We think, in our pride, that an immense interval 
separates us from those times of disaster, ignorance and 
alarm. How many of our kind, unhappy by their in- 
tellectual weakness, still tremble before the jealous and 
implacable god of their imaginations, who enjoins hatred 
and wrath ; and punishes even the errors of opinion by 
the most horrible torments. The man who is exempt 
from prejudices is alone capable of prostrating himself 
before the Divinity from a feeling of love, and whose 
prayer, alike confident and resigned, is addressed to his 
noble attributes of power, jusdce and clemency. 

There are other errors which study dispels. The 
student who is charmed with communion with the muses 
does not consume his best years in gloomy intrigues; 
nor do you meet him pressing forward in the path which 
ambition has traced, The Greeks, fertile in significant 



143 



allegories, supposed the same divinity to preside over 
the sciences and wisdom. 

The habit of living in converse with the noblest works 
of mind and art. produces elevation of soul ; and he who 
has an elevated mind must be intrinsically good and 
happy. Exempt from the weaknesses of vanity, free 
from the tumultuous passions, he cultivates the noble and 
generous virtues for the pleasure of practising them. 
Disdaining a mass of objects of desire which disturb the 
Tulgar, he offers a small mark to misery. Should ad- 
versity strike him, he has resources so much the more 
sure, as he finds them in himself. 

No one can ever taste the full charm of letters and 
the arts, except in the bosom of retirement. If he reads 
and meditates only for the pursuit of fame, amusements 
change to labors. If we propose to enter the lists, out- 
strip rivals, and direct a party, we are soon agitated with 
little passions, but great inquietudes. Heaven, sternly 
decreeing that no earthly felicity shall be unalloyed, 
has placed a thirst for celebrity as a drawback upon the 
love of study. 

But ought the ardor to render immortal services — 
ought the noble ambition to be useful, to be stifled ? 
Are not these the source of pleasures as pure as they 
are ravishing ? I contemplate an immense and inde- 
structible republic, composed of all those men who de- 
vote themselves to the happiness of their kind. Occu- 
pied without relaxation or abatement in continuing the 
works which their predecessors have begun, they be- 
queath to their successors the care of pursuing and 
crowning their labors. Men of genius are the chiefs of 
this republic. As they have talents which separate 



144 



them from the rest of the human race ; they have also 
pleasures reserved for themselves alone. What a sub- 
lime sentiment must have elevated the spirit of Newton 
when a part of the mysterious laws of the universe first 
dawned on his mind ! A glow still more delightful 
must have pervaded the bosom of Fenelon when medi- 
tating the most beautiful lessons which wisdom ever an- 
nounced to the powerful and the rulers of the people. 
To these privileged beings it belongs, to give a powerful 
impulse to minds, and to trace a new path for the 
generations to come. 

I shall have attained my humble ambition if, docile to 
the voice of the wise, I shall be able, in any degree, to 
indicate the way in which these lessons may be put in 
practice. I shall thus have contributed my aid to dissi- 
pate the night of prejudice and vice. 



LETTER XX 



THE PLEASURES OF THE IMAGINATION. 

If these words denote pleasures which have no reality, 
let us no longer use them.^''' The person who, during 
the twelve hours of every day that he passed in sleep, 
believed himself clothed with royal authority, shared a 
lot exactly similar to the king who, dreaming through 
the same number of hours, imagined that he suffered 
cold and hunger, and asked the pity of the peasants in 
the streets. 



145 



All our pleasures are fugitive, and they are all real. 
That wonderful faculty, the infiagination, awakens past 
pleasures, charms the instant that is flowing, and either 
veils the future, or embellishes it in the radiance of hope. 

Let us banish that vulgar prejudice which represents 
reason and imagination as two enemies which cannot 
coexist. The severest reason ought to disdain no easy 
and pure pleasures. The happy paintings even of a 
dream bring joy, until their rainbow hues melt away. 
The dreams of the imagination have greatly the advan- 
tage over those of sleep. Our will gives them birth. 
We prolong, dissipate and renew them at pleasure.'^® 
All, who have learned to multiply these happy moments, 
know, at the same time, how to enjoy these agreeable 
visions, and paint with enchantment those dreamy hours 
which they owe to the effervescence of a gay imagina- 
tion. 

There are situations in which reason has no better 
counsel to give us than to yield ourselves up to those 
illusions which mingle pleasures with our sufferings. 
I knew a worthy, but unfortunate man, who passed 
twenty months in prison. He informed me that, every 
night, he had a dream, in which he imagined that his 
wife and children visited him and restored him to 
liberty .^^ This dream left a remembrance so profound, 
an emotion so delightful, that he determined to attempt 
to renew it by day. When evening came, exciting his 
imagination to its most vigorous action, he endeavored 
to persuade himself that the moment of the reunion was 
come. He represented to himself the transports of his 
wife and the caresses of his children ; and he allowed 
no thought but these delightful visions to occupy his 
13 



146 



mind until the moment when sleep once more wrapped 
him in forgetfulne-is. The habit of concentrating his 
imagination for this result, he assured me, finally ren- 
dered these illusions incredibly vivid and real. He ex- 
pected night with impatience ; and the certainty that the 
close of day would bring some happy moments, threw 
over the tedious hours an emotion which mitigated his 
sufferings. 

These charming illusions, in misfortune, resemble 
those brilliant boreal lights Vv/hich, in the midst of a 
night that lasts for weeks, present the image of dawn 
during the dreary winters of the polar circle. An ex- 
citable and vivid faculty, which deceives misfortune, 
ought to embellish happiness. To the pleasant things 
we possess, it adds those we desire. By its magic, we 
renew the hours of which the memory is dear. We 
taste the pleasures which a distant future promises ; 
and see, at least, the fleeting shadow of those v/hich are 
passing away. 

A gloomy philosopher has told us, that such illusions 
are the effect of a transient insanity. It seems to me 
that insane thoughts are those which create ennui ; and 
that reasonable ideas are those which throw innocent 
charms over life. If you reject these views, be persua- 
ded, at least, not to adopt a false and gloomy wisdom. 
You ought rather to prefer the convicdon that every- 
thing below is folly. ^^ But still, I can distinguish gay 
follies, frightful follies, and amiable follies ; and I easily 
discover that there is a choice among them. 

Why shonld the morose being who perceives only 
bad people on the earth, and only miseries in the future, 
blame him who cradles flattering hopes, always spring- 



147 



ing up anew, for allowing himself to be beguiled by the 
illusions of his imagination ? Both deceive themselves. 
But the one cherishes a mistake which brings hatred 
and suflering, and the other lives on gaily in his illusions. 

Wisdom does not disdain a faculty merely for being 
brilliant; and, to taste all the pleasures of imagination, 
it is indispensable that reason should be much exercised. 

Imagination resembles the magician of an oriental 
romance who transports his favorite hero to scenes of 
enchantment, to try him with pleasures ; and then de- 
livers him over to a hostile magician, who multiplies peril 
and misery around him. This creative faculty, in its 
perversion, is as fertile to invent torments as, in its more 
propitious moods, to bring forth pleasures. If once we 
resign ourselves to its gloomy caprices, it conjures up 
the terror of a thousand unreal evils. Reason cannot 
always follow its meteor path ; but ought, at least, to 
point out the course in which happiness invites it to 
walk. 

The aid of reason is still more necessary at the mo- 
ment when the chimeras of imagination disappear. It 
is an afflicting moment. Reason should prepare us to 
meet it. Every man, with an elevated mind and a good 
heart, has delighted to imagine himself far away from 
the stupid and wicked ; in a smiling country, separated 
from the rest of the world, and alone with a few friends. 
Suppose this dream realized ; I am aware that, tomorrow, 
the peaceful exile might be indulging regrets for the 
place he had left ; and forming plans to escape from the 
ennui of the new country. Since we change our des- 
tiny in these respects, without altering our instinctive 
desire of change, let us study the art of softening the 



148 



pains of our actual condition ; and let us learn to extract 
all possible advantages from it by imparting to it, if 
nothing more, the embellishment created by the happy 
anticipations of a fertile imagination. 

Ought we to indulge regrets because these paintings 
of the imagination so rapidly disappear. I have seen 
the rich and the great stripped, in a moment, of their 
fortune and power ; and shall I afflict myself because 
my dream has vanished ? These unfortunate people 
lost all that was dear to them, forever. For me, I can 
renew these pleasures of imagination at my will. 

Far from sacrificing any of our faculties, let us exer- 
cise them all ; and let them mutually conduce to our 
happiness. As we advance in life, our reason should 
grow to the calm of mature age. But let the imagina- 
tion and the heart still preserve scintillations of the fire 
ofvouth. 



LETTER XXI. 



MELANCHOLY. 



There is no pleasure of earth but, as soon as it be- 
comes vivid, has a tendency to tinge itself with melan- 
choly. The birth of an infant, the convalescence of a 
father, the return of a friend who has been long absent, 
fill the eyes with tears. Nature has thus chosen to 
mingle the colors of joy and sadness. Having destined 
us to experience each of the emotions in turn, she has 



149 



ordained that the shades of transition should melt into 
each other.^^ 

The dearest remembrances are those which are ac- 
companied by tenderness of heart. The sports of 
infancy, the first loves, the perils we have forever 
escaped, and the faults we have learned to repair, are 
of the number. Whoever will recollect the happiest 
moments of his life, will find them to have produced this 
emotion. 

But there are two kinds of melancholy ; or rather, 
we must not confound melancholy with gloom. Will 
the slight tenderness of sorrow which imparts a new 
charm to the fugitive pleasures of existence be inspired 
by those gloomy books which this age has attempted to 
bring into fashion ; by those terrific and wild dreams in 
which hideous personages enact revolting scenes ? 
Modern imagination has painted melancholy a tall and 
unearthly spectre enveloped in a winding sheet. The 
real traits of her countenance are those of Innocence 
occupied in pleasant revery ; and at the same time that 
tears are in her eyes, a smile dwells on her lips. 

It is the resort of a sterile imagination and a cold 
heart, to invest even the tomb with borrowed ideas of 
darkness ; to wait for night in which to visit it ; and to 
torment the fancy to people it with sinister phantoms. 
Real sensibility would not require such an effort to be 
awakened. It fills my mind with a pleasing sadness to 
wander in the church yard, under the melancholy radi- 
ance of the moon, among monuments of white marble, 
and hear the night breeze sigh among the weeping wil- 
lows. I am deeply affected with, here and there, a 
touching inscription.^^ I remember one in which a 
13* 



150 



father says, that he has had five children, and that here 
sleeps the last that remained to him for consolation. In 
another, a father and mother announce that their daugh- 
ter died at seventeen, a victim of their weak indulgence, 
and of the extravagant modes of the time. This sojourn 
of repose, these words written in the abodes of silence, 
which inspire tenderness for those that are no more, and 
those whose treasured affection still remembers them, 
always penetrate the sotd with an emotion not without 
its charms. In the view of tombs, we immediately di- 
rect our thoughts to an internal survey of ourselves. T 
mark out my place among the peaceful mansions. I 
imagine the vernal grass and flowers reviving over my 
place of rest. My imagination transports me to the 
days which I shall not see, and sounds for me the sooth- 
ing dirge of the adieus of friendship pronounced over 
the spot where I am laid.^"^ 

I generally carry from my sojourn in these our last 
mansions, one painful sentiment. I remark that many 
lomhs are raised by parents for their children ; by hus- 
bands for their wives ; by w^idows for their husbands. 
I observe that there are but few erected by children for 
their fathers. Perhaps it is right that love should as- 
cend in that scale, rather than descend in the other. 

Occasional visits to ruins and tombs inspire salutary 
melancholy. But the habit of frequently contemplating 
these lugubrious objects is dangerous. It blunts sensi- 
bility and creates the necessity of always requiring 
strong emotions. It nourishes in the soul sombre ideas 
whicii do not associate with happiness. Without doubt, 
there are those who are so unhappy as to long for the 
repose of the grave; who find solace in these gloomy 



151 



spectacles. Young, after having lost his only daughter, 
after having in vain solicited a little consecrated earth 
to cover the remains of the youthful victim ; after being 
reduced to the necessity of interring the loved one with 
his own hands, might be tempted to fly his kind and 
love only night, solitude and tombs. There have been 
men, condemned by the award of nature, to such re- 
verses as nourish an incurable and perpetual melancholy. 
Their frigid imitators, without their reason and profound 
feeling, in wishing to render themselves singular, become 
tiresome and ridiculous in their melancholy. 

Writers of the most splendid genius of the age have 
consecrated their talents to celebrate melancholy ; 
not that melancholy which has a smile of profound 
sensibility, but that which has been cradled in tombs 
and which holds out to us the full draught of sadness. 
There is something in these heart-rending scenes, these 
lugubrious spectacles, which the age seeks with avidity. 
A writer whose talent tends to render his errors sedu- 
cing, has taken pleasure in viewing the christian religion 
as opening an inexhaustible source of melancholy. It 
seems to exalt his mind, most of all,, when it presents 
itself to him under a funereal aspect. 

He paints religion as born in the forests of Horeb 
and Sinai, forever surrounded with a formidable gloom ; 
and offering to our adorations a God who died for men. 
He describes the invasion of the barbarians, the perse- 
cutions of the first believers, cloisters arising from deep 
and dark groves, and melancholy continually receiving 
new accessions from the austere rules imposed upon the 
pious inmates. 

' There,' said he, '^the tenants of these religious seclu- 



152 



sions dug their own tombs, by the light of the moon, id 
the cemeteries of their own cloisters. Their couch was 
a coffin. Some of them occasionally wandered away 
to sojourn among the ruins of Memphis and Babylon, 
striking the chords of the harp of David, surrounded by 
beasts of prey. Some condemned themselves to per- 
petual silence. Others sung a continual hymn, echoing 
the sighs of Job, the lamentations of Jeremiah, or the 
penitential songs of the prophet king. Their monaste- 
ries were built on sites the most savage, on the summits 
of Lebanon, in the deep forests of Gaul, or on the crags 
of the British shores. How sad the knell of the reli- 
gious bells, heard at the noon of night, must have 
sounded when calling the vestals to their vigils and 
prayers ! The sounds, as they swelled and died away, 
mingled the last strains of the hymns with the distant 
dashing of the waves. How profound must have been 
the meditations of the solitary who, from his grated win- 
dow, indulged in revery, as his eye wandered over the 
illimitable sea, perhaps agitated with a tempest ! What 
a contrast between the fury of the waves and the calm 
of his retreat ! The expiring cries of men are heard as 
ihey dash upon the rocks at the foot of the asylum of 
peace. Infinity stretches out on one side of their cell ; 
and on the other the slab of a tomb alone separates be- 
tween eternity and life. All the different forms of mis- 
fortune, remembrance, manners, and the scenes of na- 
ture concurred to render the christian religion the genius 
of melancholy.' 

Can it be thought, for a moment, possible that sighs 
without end, the love of deserts and the hope of the 
tomb are all the consolations that this divme religion is 



153 



calculated to bring to the heart of man ? Such an error 
could only have had its origin in an unregulated imagina- 
tion. The christian religion, though pensive and seri- 
ous, is not sad. Less brilliant, less imaginative than 
paganism, less friendly to pleasure, she is far more 
favorable to happiness. 

My opinion in regard to the legitimate tendency of 
religion, is not only different but directly opposite. A 
pure religion must produce tranquillity, confidence and 
joy. It is departure from religious views which are 
true and just, that is followed by a vague sadness, gloom 
and despondency. 

These funereal and yet eloquent paintings, traced 
with the enthusiasm of melancholy, must have had the 
effect to increase the number of men of atrabilious tem- 
perament, weary of the world, and tired of themselves. 
Were it true that the christian religiori inspired an 
insatiate craving for funereal reveries, far from consider- 
ing it as I do, divine, I should estimate it anti-social. — 
The true friends of the christian religion always paint it as 
it is, more powerful than even human misery ; giving 
clothing to the naked, bread to the hungry, an asylum to 
the sick, a peaceful home to the returning prodigal, and 
a mother to the orphan ; wiping away the tears of inno- 
cence with a celestial hand, and filling the eyes of the 
culpable and contrite with tears of consolation. Let 
pious thankfulness and a calm courage, which even death 
cannot shake, environ its modest heroes. Let its mar- 
tyrs be those of charity and toleration ; — the protestant 
opening an asylum to catholic, falling under the fanat- 
ical fury of his brethren ; and when bloody and impious 
mandates order the massacre of protestants, the catholic 



154 



sheltering them in his mansion. Such was the spirit of 
Erasmus ; such, of the divine Fenelon ', such, of William 
Penn, and a few tolerant lights that have gleamed through 
ages of persecution and darkness. Such are the men 
whose disciples we desire to multiply. Let us cease to 
incorporate melancholy errors and gloomy follies with the 
religion of peace, confidence and hope. Eloquence was 
imparted for a nobler use. 



LETTER XXIL 

HELKiiOtJS SENTIMENTS. 

The philosophy of happiness must find its ultimate 
requisite in the hopes of religion. Man must be per- 
suaded that his present life has relation to a never end- 
ing future, and that an eternal providence watches over 
the universe, before he will abandon himself with a tran- 
quil confidence to those irresistible laws by which he is 
borne along. He then marches towards the future, as 
he would confidently follow a guide of tried prudence 
and fidelity in a dark path.^"* 

In the fever and tumult of worldly pleasures and pur- 
suits, the voice of wisdom has little chance to be heard, 
and it seems necessary that misfortune should have forced 
the mind in upon itself, before we become inclined to 
find resources in religion. Then we invoke this sublime 
and consoling power, and like the friend that avoids our 
prosperity and our festivals, but returns to cheer our 



155 



misfortunes, this celestial friend is at hand to offer her 
sustaining succor. We may class all those pleasures as 
noxious, which will not associate with this august visitant. 
Even in our periods of happiness, if we pause for the re- 
flection of a moment, we find the need of imraortahty. 
All the generous and tender affections acquire a new 
charm in alliance with religious ideas, in the same man- 
ner as objects beautiful in themselves, receive a new lus- 
tre when a pure light is thrown upon them. Filial piety 
becomes more touching in those children who pray with 
fervor for the preservation of the life of a mother. Let 
a pious courage guide the sister of charity, and she be- 
comes the angel of consolation, as she visits the abodes 
of misery. Even virtue itself does not receive its celes- 
tial impress, except in alliance with religious sentiments. 
A few of the higher philosophers among the great an- 
cients, and Fenelon, Newton, Milton and a few other 
men of immortal name, saw the divinity as He is, and 
contemplated the perfect model of his infinite perfections. 
Their efforts tended to cooperate with the divine views 
of order and harmony, in constantly directing human ac- 
tions and thoughts towards good. The beautiful system 
of the gospel has the same simplicity of object ; and its 
tendency to honor and meliorate humanity is directed 
by the highest wisdom. Sentiments which give to all 
our faculties a direction, fertilize genius as well as virtue. 
High models, in any walk of mind, will never be pro- 
duced in a world whose inhabitants believe in nothing 
but matter, fortuitous combinations, and the annihilation 
of our being. Apostles of atheism ! your dreary creed 
throws an impenetrable gloom upon the universe, and 
dries the source of all high thoughts. The advocates of 



156 



these views vaunt the necessity of proclaiming the truth. 
I, too, am the fearless advocate of the truth, and have 
no dread of its results. But could I be persuaded, that 
religious hopes were unfounded, I should be tempted 
to renounce my confidence in truth itself; and no longer 
to inculcate the necessity of loving and seeking to propa- 
gate it. It is by the light of this divine torch, that real 
sages have desired to investigate religion. Were it pos- 
sible that the elevated and consoling ideas, which reli- 
gion offers, could be baseless and absurd chimeras, error 
and truth would be so confounded, that there would no 
longer remain any discriminating sign by which to dis- 
tinguish the one from the other. Atheists boast that they 
are the only frank and hardy antagonists of superstition. 
They are its most effectual allies. The superstitious 
have brought forth the atheists, and the atheists have 
re-produced the superstidous ; as, in revolutions, resist- 
ance produces fury, and that multiplies resistance. 

I have known excellent men, apparently earnest and 
docile inquirers for truth, who have desired in vain to 
establish in their mind these consoling convictions. — 
Their understanding refused to respond to the wish of 
theii" hearts. 

Why can I not impart this happy conviction to their 
understanding? My subject precludes reasoning, and I 
only know arguments that are very simple ; but I think 
with Bacon, that it needs quite as much credulity to 
adopt the opinion of atheists, as to yield faith to all the 
reveries of the Talmud or the Koran. Themore pro- 
foundly I attempt to investigate the doctrines of infideli- 
ty, and consider everything that surrounds me, as re- 
sulting from the combinations of chance, the play of 



157 



atoms, the efforts of brute matter, the more my inqui- 
ries are involved in darkness. I strive in vain to give 
to any hypothesis of atheism the honest semblance of prob- 
ability. Matter cannot reflect upon the order which 
its different parts require. Neither can those parts in- 
terchange reason and discussion. Neither an atom, nor a 
globe can say to others of their class, ' such are the courses 
in which we must move.' Let us simplify difficulties, as 
much as possible, and admit that matter has always ex- 
isted ; let us even suppose motion essential to it ; a su- 
preme intelligence is none the less necessary to the har- 
mony of the universe. Without a governor of worlds, 
I can only conceive of nihility or chaos. 

From the sublimest of all thoughts, there is a God, 
flow all the truths which my heart desires. The beau- 
tiful superstructure of Christianity results, as a corol- 
lary, or ultimate inference, from this consoling axiom. 
The system which rejects the soul's immortality, is 
equally absurd with that of atheism. Of the different 
arguments against the being of a God, the most striking 
one is that which is drawn from the evils which prevail 
on the earth. The first thought of every man of sensi- 
bility, is, that had he the power to make a world, he 
would banish misery from it, and so arrange the order 
of things, as that existence should be, to all conscious be- 
ings, a succession of moments, each marked by happi- 
ness. But infirmities, vices, misery, sorrow and death pur- 
sue us. How reconcile the misery of the creation with 
the power and beneficence of the Creator? How re- 
solve this strange problem ? How explain this revolting 
contradiction ? Immortality is the only solution of the 
enigma of life.^^ 
14 



158 



A whimsical combination of deism and materialism 
orms, at present, the most widely diffused system among 
the unbelieving. They have imagined a God possess- 
ing only physical power, and contemplating the move- 
ment of his innumerable worlds, alike indifferent to crime 
and virtue. Fie beholds with the same carelessness the 
generations that pass, and those that succeed ; and sees 
deliverers and tyrants alike confounded in their fall. — 
Admit the truth of such dogmas, and the conceptions of 
a religious man would possess more expansion and sub- 
limity than the views of the Eternal. Socrates, without 
the illumination of the gospel, could have taught'them 
better. Surrounded by his weeping disciples, he f)oints 
them beyond the tomb to the places where the sage at 
last respires freely ; and where the misfortunes and in- 
equalities of earth are redressed. In painting these illu- 
sions of hope, if they are vain, the sage has conceived in 
his dreams an equity superior to tliat of the infinite Be- 
ing. Let us dare to maintain that the feeble children of 
clay have a right to entertain ideas of order and desert, 
more just than those of the Creator, or admit that the 
heart, made capable of the desire of another life, is des- 
tined to enjoy it. 

The destiny of all the inferior orders that surround 
us, appears to terminate upon the earth. Ours alone is 
evidently not accomplished here. The animals, exempt 
from vice, incapable of virtue, experience, in ceasing to 
live, neither hopes nor regrets. They die without the 
foresight of death. Man, in the course of an agitated 
life, degrades himself by follies and vices, or honors him- 
self by generous and useful actions. Remembrances, 
loves, ties, in countless forms, twine about his heart. He 



159 



is torn, in agony, from beings for whom he has commenc- 
ed an affection that he feels might be eternal. Perse- 
cuted for his virtue, proscribed for his wisdom and cour- 
age, calumniated for his most conscientious acts, he turns 
to heaven a fixed look of confidence and hope. Has 
he nothing to perform beyond death? Has the author 
of nature forgotten his justice, only in completing his 
most perfect work ? 

Our immortality is a necessary consequence of the 
existence of God. Let us not wander astray in vain 
discussions, which, with our present faculties, we can 
never master — such as relate to the nature of the soul. 
My hopes, my convictions, rest not upon a cloudy, met- 
aphysical argument. Neither can the proud treatise 
of a sophist weaken, nor the puerile dialectics of a pe- 
dant increase it. It is enough for me that there is a 
God. Virtue in misfortune must have hopes which do 
not terminate with the tomb. The sublime inculcation 
of Socrates was, * preserve confidence in death.' But 
recompense in another existence supposes merit ; and 
merit requires liberty. 

Is man free ? We can reduce this question which has 
been so much vexed, and so often obscured, to terms of 
entire simplicity. It has been most forcibly presented 
by Hobbes, the vile apostle at once of atheism and des- 
potism, who seems to have striven to unite the most per- 
nicious doctrines with an example, which merits execra- 
tion. ' Two objects, ' he remarks, ' attract us in opposite 
directions. As long as they produce impressions nearly 
equal, our mind, in a state of uncertainty, vacillates 
from the one to the other ; and we believe, that we are 
deliberating. Finally, one of the objects strikes us with 



160 



a stronger impression than the other. We are drawn ta* 
wards it; and we believe that it is because we will it. — 
Thus, man, always passive, yields to the strongest and 
most vivid sensation. Free actions would be an effect 
W'ithout a cause.' Admirable reasoning ! What other 
freedom could I wish, than to prefer what seems to me 
the most desirable ? Let the disciples of Hobbes in- 
struct me how they would choose that man should de- 
termine, in order to be conscious of liberty ? Would 
they wish him to choose the object that is repugnant to 
him ? This is too evidently absurd. Should he vacil- 
late in indifference between the one object and the other ? 
This would be to sink into an existence of perfect apathy, 
without reason or will. Man has all the liberty, of 
which such a being is capable — all, in fact, which he 
could desire. 

How puerile are these metaphysical subtleties, when 
employed upon moral truths !^^ What a monster would 
man become on the system of the fatalists ! What is 
that system worth, the consequences of which cannot be 
admitted ? If we act under the inevitable empire of fa- 
talism, why is he who proclaims this doctrine, indignant 
at the thought of crime ? Does he contemplate Socra- 
tes and his executioners with the same approbation ? — 
Will he regard with the same feeling Antoninus dictat- 
ing pious lessons to his son, and Nero assassinating his 
mother ? Will he estimate as alike meritorious a perse- 
cuted Christian praying for his enemies, and the monarch 
ordering the massacre of St Bartholomew ? Do such 
contrasts offend us ? And why ? According to the sys- 
tem of fatalism, the good ought to inspire us with less in- 
terest than the wicked. A blind fatality awai'ds to the- 



161 



virtuous that pure pleasure, that is inseparably connect- 
ed with good actions. They receive a high reward 
without any merit ; while the others are a prey to re- 
morse, and the incessant object of public hatred and ab- 
horrence. If they are innocent, as on the principles of 
fatalism they must be, how ought we to mourn over them, 
and pity them ! What purpose can these doctrines 
serve ? He who advocates them, is concsious of im- 
pulses to do good, and deliberates upon alternatives in the 
courses which honor and duty call him to pursue. His 
principles, then, are contradicted by the voice of his 
own heart. When he has committed a fault, it declares 
to him that he might have chosen a contrary part. — 
When he has done a virtuous action, it inspires emotions 
of joy, which render him conscious that he is a free agent. 
This voice within is anterior to all reasoning, and as inca- 
pable of being invalidated as any other consciousness. 
Inexhaustible emotions of satisfaction spring from reli- 
gious hopes. Reanimated by them, I no longer see 
tears without consolation, nor fear an eternal adieu. — 
The tomb, though a fearful, is but a frail barrier, which 
separates us from those real joys, of which the pleasures 
of a fugitive existence are but the shadow. 

Never would men have exchanged their natural con- 
victions, their internal aspirations, their instinctive hopes 
of immortality, for the lurid and deceptive glare of in- 
fidelity, if religious views had not been disfigured by 
being combined with the grossest errors and prejudices. 
Of these, there are two which every good man ought to 
strive to eradicate from all minds, and if it were possi- 
ble, to purge from the earth. 

The first causes us to behold in the divinity a menac- 
14* 



162 



ing and implacable judge, constantly eager to execute 
vengeance. Monstrous conception ! Revolting error I 
Infancy and old age, the tv;o extremes of earthly exist- 
ence, which from their feebleness, call for our most 
soothing cares, are those most persecuted with this vile 
and fierce prejudice. A cruel superstition has selected 
these terrific ideas, these horrible images, with which to 
besiege the bed of death, to light up the scene of agony — 
of parting and trembling apprehensions — with the flames 
of perdition. My bosom swells with mingled emotions^ 
when I see any one attempting to darken the feeble and 
docile reason of a child with these sinister views. Pur- 
sued even in his dreams by these terrible menaces, be- 
fore he knows the meaning of crime, he has already felt 
its torments. Astonishing infatuation ! It is in this as- 
pect that gloomy religionists have presented the compas- 
sionate and sustaining hope of the gospel. Instead of 
inspiring sweet and consoling ideas, they have succeed- 
ed in filling innocence with remorse. 

The other prejudice is intolerance, or that spirit which 
causes us to view all persons guilty, whose faith is dif- 
ferent from ours. While religion enjoins it upon us to 
cover the faults of our kind with a veil of indulgence, in- 
tolerance teaches us to transform their opinions into 
crimes. Religion rears asylums for the unfortunate . — 
Intolerance prepares scaffolds for all whom she chooses 
to denominate heretics. The one invokes ministers of 
charity, and the other, executioners. The one wipes 
away tea s, and the other sheds blood. 

Intolerance without power is simply ridiculous ; but 
becomes most odious when armed with authority. The 
cry of humanity is ' Peace with all men.' If any w^ere 



163 



excepted, it should be the intolerant. Even they merit 
no severer punishment, than the inflictions of their own 
fury. They may attain to deliverance from remorse in 
their confident delirium, and may count their crimes as 
virtues, through the influence of self-blindness. But this 
strange obhquity of the understanding, this horrible in- 
toxication, repels happiness. Joy and peace must fly 
the soul, of which this spirit has taken possession. 

In another life, the measure of our felicity in the man- 
sions of the just, will be the happiness we have created 
for the beings around us in this fleeting existence. A 
religious man constantly strives to render this, our terres- 
trial sojourn, more like the abode towards which his 
thoughts are "elevated. His constant occupation is to 
mitigate suffering, banish prejudice and hatred, and calm 
the fury of party. Ail his relations are those of peace 
and love. Intolerant men ! Who, of your number, will 
hope to hear it said of him in the retribution of the just, 
'much has been for2;iven him, because he has loved much ?' 



LETTER XXIII. 

OF THE RAPIDITY OF LIFE. 

In considering the different ages of life, the first senti- 
ment I feel, is gratitude for the variety of pleasures, des- 
tined for us by nature. Thrice happy for us, if we knew 
how to taste the charms of all the situations through 
which we pass ! Instead of this, we first regret infancy, 



164 



then youth, then mature age. The happy period is al- 
ways that which is no more. 

It is a great folly to sadden the present, in looking 
back upon the past, as though it had been darkened by 
no shadow of a cloud. The sorrows which nature sends 
us in infancy, resemble spring showers, the traces of 
which are effaced by a passing breeze. The pains and 
alarms of each age have been chiefly the work of men. 
Who cannot remember the violent palpitations which 
he felt, when, exposed to the searching eye of his com- 
panions, he went forward to excuse his not having pre- 
pared his task, his translation or theme, at school ? I 
have seen situations more perilous, since that time, but 
no misfortunes have awakened more bhterness, than the 
preference granted by the professor to the theme of 
another over mine. The beautiful age, for a frivolous 
being, is youth ; for the ambidous, maturity ; for the 
recluse, old age ; for a reasonable man, each age : for 
heaven has reserved peculiar pleasures for each. 

The second sentiment 1 experience, in contemplating 
life, is, regret to see the m.oments so rapidly gliding away. 
Time flies, and days and years steal away as rapidly as 
hours. Still, some complain of the burden of time, and 
endure cruel suffering from not knowing how to em- 
ploy it. 

To prolong my days, I will neither ask the elixir of 
hfe from alchymlsts, nor precepts from physicians. A 
severe regimen tends to abridge life. Multiplied priva- 
tions give a sadness to the spirit, more noxious than the 
prescribed remedies are salutary. Besides, what is 
physical without moral life ; that is to say, improvement 
and enjoyment ? Physicians vaunt the miracles of ab- 



165 



stinence and a careful regimen in the case of Cornaro, 
the Venetian, who was born dying, and yet spun out the 
thread of life with so much care that he vegetated a 
century. To attain this result, he weighed his aliment, 
and marked every hour of the day, with the most minute 
exactness. Bacon cites the case, but jests upon a 
man who believed himself living, because, in fact, he 
was not dead. 

Moderation, cheerfulness and the happy employment 
of time furnish the best means of living as many days as 
nature permits ; and the regimen of philosophic moralists 
has an effect more certain than that of physicians.^'^ 

Every one has observed that a year in youth presents 
a long perspective ; and that the further we advance in 
our career, the more the course of time seems to accel- 
erate. Let us strive to investigate the causes which so 
modify our judgments, with a view, if it be possiblcj to 
avoid them. 

There is one inevitable cause — experience. At six- 
teen, what an illimitable prospective space is seen in the 
sixteen years that are to succeed ! The termination of 
the latter period is lost to vision in the future, as the 
commencement of the first years are effaced from the 
memory of the past. But, in touching the goal which 
seemed so distant, we have discovered a scale by which 
the mind's eye measures the future. Impatient youth, 
burning to overleap the interval which separates the ob- 
ject from the desires, strives to accelerate the tardy 
hours. In mature age, on the contrary, seeing every 
day bringing us nearer the termination of our career, we 
begin to regret the want of power to arrest the march of 
time. Thus our weakness hastens the flight which we 



166 



desire to delay. Let us be less fearful of the uncertain 
future, and the hours will lose their desolating swiftness. 

Finally, in our youth, all objects being new, produce 
the vivid impression of novelty. Every instant is filled 
with landmarks of memory, because in every instant a 
new sensation is produced, and a new link in the chain 
of the succession of ideas. As we advance in time, 
objects imperceptibly cease to excite our curiosity. We 
pass by beautiful objects and striking events which once 
filled us with transport or surprise, with a carelessness 
which fails to fix them in our memory. We return 
mechanically to the occupations of the preceding day, 
scarcely noting the transit of those monotonous periods 
which were rendered remarkable neither by ennui nor 
pleasure. Let us avoid this mental carelessness, which 
gives new speed to the flight of time, and is so fatal to 
happiness. Friends of humanity, of literature, of the 
arts and true enjoyment, let us preserve the mind in 
its freshness, the imagination in its youthful brilliancy. 
Let us thus arrest the happy moments ; and let us pre- 
serve the enthusiasm of youth enlightened by the taste 
of mature age, for everything which merits our admi- 
ration.^^ 

If we desire that our days should not be abridged, we 
must love retreat. The immediate result of this sheher 
is to keep off a crowd of officious and indolent people. 
There are those who would not think of taking our mo- 
ney, and who yet will steal hours and days from us with- 
out scruple. They seem not to realize the value of these 
fractions of time wdiich are the material of life. 

But while the idle rob us of hours, we ourselves sacri- 
fice years. A great portion of our race, deafened by 



167 



the clamor of the passions, agitated by feverish dreams, 
are scarcely conscious of existence ; and, awakening 
for a moment, at death, regret that they have been long 
on the earth and yet have not lived. A (ew others, 
after having been long swept onward by the torrent, 
taught at last by experience, resist, land and fix their 
sojourn far from the tumult ; and, finally, begin to taste 
the pleasant consciousness of existence. Why not pro- 
long these final hours to the utmost ? If our pursuits 
interdict us from the independent command of our time, 
we may, at least, consecrate portions of every evening 
to retreat, in order to review the past, pause on the pre- 
sent, and prepare for the future. Thus, making evei-y 
day count in accumulating the pleasant stores of memory, 
we add it to the happy days of the past, and no longer 
allow life to vanish like a dream. 

It is, more than all, in converse with ourselves that 
we give a right direction to the mind, elevation to the 
soul, and gentleness and firmness to the character. Life 
is a book in which we every day read a page. We 
ought to note down every instructive incident that 
passes. 

The admirable Marcus Aurelius took delight in con- 
verse with himself; and learned to find enjoyment in 
the present by extracting from the past lessons for the 
future. I never fail to be affected when I read the 
account which he gives of all those persons whose cares 
had concurred to form his character and his manners. 
' I learned,' says he, ' of my grandfather Verus, to be 
gentle and complaisant. 

' The reputation which my father left, and the mem- 
ory of his good actions which has been preserved, 



168 



taught me modesty. My mother formed me to piety^ 
taught me to be liberal, and not even to meditate, still 
less, to do a wrong. 

' I owe it to my governor that I am patient of labor j 
indulge few wants, know how to work with my own 
hands, meddle with no business that does not concern 
me, and give no encouragement to informers. 

' Diosnetus taudit me not to be amused with frivoli- 
ties, to yield no credit to charlatans and enchanters, and 
to have no faith in conjurations, demons and supersti- 
tions of that sort. I learned of him to permit every one 
to speak to me widi entire freedom, and to apply myseif 
wholly to philosophy. 

'Rusticus made me perceive that I needed to correct 
my manners, that T ought to avoid the pride of the 
sophists, and not use effort to inspire the people with 
admiration of my patience and austerity of life ; to be 
always ready to pardon those w^ho had offended me, 
and to receive them kindly whenever they were disposed 
to resume their former intercourse. 

' I learned of Apollonius to be at the same time 
frank and firm in my designs, to follow no guide but my 
reason, even in the smallest matters, and to be always 
composed, even under the most acute sufferings. By 
his example I was instructed that it is possible to be at 
once severe and gentle. 

' Sextus taught me to govern my house as a good 
father, to preserve a simple gravity without affectation, 
to attempt to divine and anticipate the wishes and neces- 
sities of my friends ; to endure, with calmness and pa- 
tience, the ignorant and presumptuous who speak with- 
out thinking what they say ; and to sustain relations of 
kindness with all. 



169 



*I learned from Alexander, the grammarian, in dispu- 
tation to use no injurious words in reply to my antago- 
nist. 

* Fronto taught me to know that kings are surrounded 
by the envious, by knaves and hypocrites. 

* Alexander, the Platonist, instructed me never to say 
or to write to any person interceding for my interest, 
" I have had no time to attend to your affairs ;" nor to 
allege, as an excuse, " I have been overwhelmed with 
business ;" but to be always prompt to render all those 
good offices which the bonds of society demand. 

' I owe to my brother Severus, the love which I have 
for truth and justice. From him I derived the desire to 
govern my states by equal laws, and to reign in such a 
manner as that my subjects might possess perfect liberty. 

* I thank the Divinity for having given me virtuous 
ancestors, a good father, a good mother, a good sister, 
good preceptors and good friends ; in a word, all the 
good things 1 could have desired. '^^ 

A crowd of useful thoughts cannot but flow from such 
self-converse. Hold every day one of these solitary 
conversations with yourself. This is the way in which 
to attain the highest relish of existence ; and, if I may 
so say, to cast anchor in the river of life. 



15 



170 



LETTER XXIV. 



ON DEATH, 



If we were to allow ourselves to express the wish 
that we might never die, an absurd wish which, perhaps, 
every man has sometimes indulged, a moralist might say, 
' Suppose it were granted, where would be the end of 
dissension, hatred, revenge ? Where would the victim 
whom injustice pursues, find an asylum and repose ?' 
To all this it is sufficient to reply, that if we accuse 
nature for having subjected us to the penalty of death, 
we have not less reason to accuse her for having often 
rendered death desirable, as a relief from greater evils. 
Instead of showing herself so niggardly in bestowing 
happy moments, why did she not spare humanity the 
evils that render death a comparative release. 

There are, as I believe, more solid reasons to justify 
nature in rendering death an inevitable allotment. When, 
undertaking to reform the universe in my day dreams, 
I render our earthly existence eternal, I find no diffi- 
culty in imagining all the evils which afflict us removed. 
But I strain my imagination to no purpose to give form 
and reality to those pleasures which shall be adequate 
to replace those which this new order of things cannot 
admit. Suppose that it were no longer necessary that 
generation should succeed generation ; and that death 
were banished from the earth. The same beings, 
without hopes or fears, would always cover its surface. 
No more loves ; no more parental tenderness ; no more 



171 



filial piety ! Flattering hopes forsake the bosom along 
with enchanting remembrances. All those affections 
which give value to life owe their existence to death. ^^ 

Our prejudices transform death into a terrible spectre, 
accompanied by frightful dreams. The dark and anti- 
social doctrine, that we were placed on the earth for 
the punishment of exile, and that we ought never to 
intermit our contemplation of the grave, was imagined 
by hypocrites, who preached to others contempt of the 
world, that they might appropriate it to themselves. A 
wise man sees in existence a gift which he ought not to 
sacrifice. In learning how to live, he instructs himself 
how to die. 

We must sometimes look Death in the face to judge 
how we shall be able to sustain his approach.^^ It is 
DOtr' necessary often to repeat this stern examination 
which presents gloomy ideas, even to minds the most 
disciplined. Another manner of contemplating the final 
scene offers all the useful results of the first, and presents 
nothing afflicting. It consists in observing the influence 
which death ought to exercise over life. This term, 
unknown, but always near, should render our duties 
more sacred, our affections more tender, our pleasures 
more vivid. In noting the rapidity of the flight of time, 
a wise man seizes upon those ideas which disturb the 
hours of the multitude, to enhance the charm of his own 
thoughts. It was not without an aim that certain of the 
ancient philosophers placed in their festal hall a death's 
head decked with roses. 

Those who say that death is nothing, may be thought 
to affect the semblance of courage. They speak, in 
fact, only one of the simplest truths. The term death 



172 



is the sign of a purely negative idea ; and denotes an 
instant impossible for thought to measure. It is not yet 
death, or it is past ; and there is no interval. 

Without doubt, the circumstances which precede it 
are extremely afflicting. Sudden deaths ought to cost 
us fewer tears than any others. Yet we hear it repeated, 
with a sigh, ' the unfortunate sufferer lingered but a few 
hours.' Was not that space sufficiently long when the 
moments were counted by agony ? Let us not tinge our 
views by the coloring of egotism ; and we shall perceive 
in this prompt departure, two motives for consolation ; 
that the deceased, whom we regret, saw not the long 
approach of death in advance ; and, that, in meeting it, 
he experienced a brief pang. Such an end is worthy 
of envy, and is the last benefit of heaven. 

So died my father, the best of fathers, whom every 
one recognised by his force of charactery his gendeness 
and serenity. He did not dazzle, either by his vivacity of 
mind, or the variety of his acquirements. But he so said 
the simplest things as to render them the best. During 
sixty five years he shared the pains of others, but never 
added to them. One day^ having experienced unac- 
customed fatigue, he retired early, and a few moments 
after, slept in death. Such a death, without pain and 
alarm, was worthy of a life so pure that, to render him 
happy in the life to come, it would be only necessary to 
leave him the remembrance of what he had been and 
what he had done upon upon earth. 

A fact recognised by numberless observing physicians 
is, that the last agony of a good man is rarely violent. 
It is probable, that in regard to all forms of death, man- 
kind generally entertain the most erroneous conceptions. 



173 



The vulgar, naturally embracing ideas that terrify them, 
believe that the dissolution of our earthly being is ac- 
companied by all conceivable torments. It is probable, 
on the contrary, that, in entering upon eternal repose, 
we experience sensations analogous to those of a wearied 
man who feels the sweet influence of sleep stealing 
gently upon him. 

These sensations, it is true, can be imagined to belong 
only to the last moments. Cruel maladies may precede 
them. But it would seem that nature invariably em- 
ploys some means to mitigate the evils which she inflicts. 
Among mortal diseases, those which are severely pain- 
ful are equally rapid ; while those which are slow in 
their progress are comparatively free from pain. They 
allow the patient time to accustom himself to the idea 
of his departure. It is common for those who die in 
this way to close their career in the indulgence of dreamy 
and melancholy musings, solacing themselves alternately 
by resignation and hope. 

A spectacle, touching to the heart, and, unhappily, too 
common, is presented in the case of a fair and florid 
young woman struck with a pulmonary malady. Abso- 
lute unconsciousness of danger often accompanies this 
cruel disease to the last moment. We are perfectly 
aware that the patient cannot survive the coming winter. 
We hear her pantingly discuss the projects which she 
expects to execute with her companions when health 
and spring shall return. The contrast of her daily in- 
creasing debility with her gentle gayety, and of her future 
projects, with the rapid approach of death, makes the 
heart bleed. Every one is pained for her but herself. 
The hectic fever imparts a kind of joyous inspiration ; 
15^ 



174 



and nature, to absolve itself for inflicting death on one 
so youngj leads her to her last hour in tranquil security. 
Death is to her as a sleep. 

It is certain that physical sufferings are not those 
which infuse the utmost bitterness into this last cup. 
The gloomy thoughts with which death is invested are 
excited much more keenly by those affections which 
attach us to earth and our kind. We may well hold the 
understanding of those ambitious persons in disdain who 
instruct us, that when they have finished their vast pro- 
jects their days shall thenceforward ghde in peace and 
serenity. Death uniformly surprises them, tormenting 
themselves in the pursuit of their shadows. Others, 
with less show of stupidity, repine because death strikes 
them reposing upon their pleasures. Their groans are 
caused by having forgotten the rapidity and evanescence 
of their joys. They had not known how to give them 
an additional charm in saying, ' we possess them but for 
a day.' 

But suppose we regret neither ambitious projects nor 
transient pleasures, may we not wish to live longer for 
our children ? I attempt not to inculcate an impractica- 
ble or exaggerated system. There is a situation in 
which death is fearful. There is a period in which it 
would seem as if man ought not to die. It commences 
when one has become a parent, and terminates when 
his sustaining hand is no longer indispensable to his 
family. 

If nature call us to quit hfe before this epoch, all con- 
solations resemble the remedies which palliate the pains 
of the dying, without possessing efficacy to remove them. 
Still we dare not so outrage nature as to believe that 



115 



there can exist a situation in which a good man can find 
no alleviation for his sorrows. In quitting a life which 
he would wish to retain longer, for the happiness of 
those most dear to him, he may derive force and mag- 
nanimity from the thought that he owes it to himself to 
leave an example of courage and decent dignity in the 
last act ; that he may show the influence of piety, resig- 
nation, the hope of a good man, and the discipline of 
that philosophy which forbids its disciple to struggle 
against the inevitable lot. 

The approach of death always brings associations of 
gloom when it comes in advance of old age, to destroy 
the tender affections. In the slow and natural course 
of years, it is an event as simple, as little to be depre- 
cated, as the other occurrences of life. Alas ! during a 
short sojourn, we see those who were most dear con- 
tinually falling around us. We soon retain a less num- 
ber with us than exist already in another world. The 
family is divided. I am not surprised that it becomes a 
matter of indifference to a wise man to remain with his 
present friends, or go and rejoin those that are absent. 

As long as our children have need of our support, 
we resemble a traveller charged with business of ex- 
treme importance. As soon as these cares become 
useless, we resemble him who travels at leisure and by 
chance ; and who takes up his lodging for the night 
wherever the setting sun surprises him. For me, I see 
the second epoch drawing near. If I reach it, I shall 
bless heaven for having awarded me a sufficient number 
of years, and for having diffused over them so few 
pains. 

Let us not charge that man with weakness who, when 



176 



on the eve of departure for distant and untravelled 
countries, is perceived to impart the intonation and ten- 
derness of sorrow to his adieus. Ought we to exact 
more of him whom death is about to conduct to that 
' undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveller 
returns ?' I would not seem to affect an austere and 
unnatural courage. But whenever delivered from the 
only heart-rending agony, I will hope and strive to pre- 
serve sufficient tranquillity of mind to impress the senti- 
ment on those I love, that we ought, with becoming dig- 
nity, to submit ourselves to the immutable laws of nature ; 
tliat complaint is useless^ and murmuring unjust ; and 
that it becomes us, with transient but subdued emotion, 
to say, as we receive the final embrace, ' may we meet 
again !' 



LETTER XXV. 

CONCLUSION OF 'DROZ SUR L'AUT D'ETRE HEU- 
REUSE.' 

1 SHALL have attained my purpose if these sketches 
should produce any degree of conviction that man, in 
exercising liis faculties, can mitigate his pains and multiply 
his pleasures, and, consequently, should serve as the out- 
lines of a plan for reducing the pursuit of happiness to an 
art. I am aware that no view could be offered more 
contrary to the prevalent opinions in society. The morose 
and the frivolous make common cause to attack it. To 



177 



them the very idea seems absurd ; and the most indul- 
gent among them question the good faith of him who 
announces it.^^ 

To such grave and learned authorities, and more, 
even to the general suffrage against it, I might dare to 
oppose counterbalancing authorities. From Socrates to 
Franklin, I see philosophers who have been persuaded 
that man may be directed in the art, and instructed in 
the science of happiness ; and that his faculties may be 
enlarged to pursue it. Who are the men that have enter- 
tained this persuasion ? The very elite of the human race. 
Was each individual of them surrounded by those happy 
circumstances which would naturally inspire the same 
philosophy ? They were persons who had experienced 
all the conditions of life. As if nature had studied to 
prove, by great examples, that our happiness depends 
upon our reason more than upon our circumstances, Epic- 
tetus lived in chains, and Marcus Aurelius on a throne. 

We justly render homage to the Greek philosophers. 
Is their glory founded on their physics, long since known 
to be full of errors, or their metaphysics, often puerile ? 
Upon neither ; but they have merited the veneration of 
ages by indicating principles, the practice of which, 
would render us better and more happy. 

Which of the sciences did the admirable Socrates 
chiefly esteem ? The single one which teaches us how 
to live as we ought. Let it not be said that I substitute 
one science for another; and that Socrates taught 
morals, and not my pretended science of happiness. 
With the Greeks, morals had a perfectly definite end. 
Their philosophers held all their teaching subservient to 
conducting their disciples to happiness. Illustrious men ! 



178 



we disdain their maxims, but still revere their names. 
What fruit have we obtained from the boasted light and 
improvement of the age ? We speak with enthusiasm 
of those sciences which they judged frivolous ; and we 
treat as chimerical those studies which they judged 
alone worthy of human nature. 

Suppose it had been said to these philosophers, ' you 
will never reform the human race ; and, instead of 
profitless dreams about w^isdom and happiness, you 
ought to desist from subjects so futile, and consecrate 
your vigils to sciences more worthy to occupy your 
thoughts.' Would they not have smiled with pity upon 
such counsel ? Had they deigned to reply, would they 
not have said, ' We are well aware that we shall not 
purify the heart of the wicked of its pride, envy, 
cupidity; but shall we derive no glory from having 
confirmed some good men in their career ? In the 
midst of storms we fell our energies invigorated as we 
perceived that our spirits were in accordance with theirs. 
However feeble may have been the influence of our 
writings, affront not humanity by supposing that ours, 
however partial may have been their circulation, will, 
nowhere, find minds worthy to profit by them. Per- 
haps they will kindle the holy love of virtue in some of 
those who may read them in the youthful age of unso- 
phisticated and generous resolutions. Few, who read, 
will practise our doctrine in all its extent. Almost every 
one will be indebted to it for some solitary principles. 
It is possible we may never have numerous disciples. 
But we shall have some in all countries and in all time. 
It is a truth that ought to satisfy us, that such discussions 
are based neither upon exaggeration nor revery. Th^ 



179 



science of happiness would indeed be chimerical if we 
expected that it would impart the same charms to all 
predicaments in which our lot might cast us. Instead 
of indulging such visionary hopes, if these discussions 
dissipate the errors which veil the true good from our 
eyes, if we learn to bring together all the easy and inno- 
cent pleasures, and to render the painful moments of 
life more rapid, we have been taught an art which it is 
possible to demonstrate and improve to an indefinite 
extent.' 

Does this art appear difficult ? Let any one be 
named which it exacts no effort to acquire. Will it be 
thought that it cannot become of general utility ? Will 
professors, of the highest reputation, cease to teach elo- 
quence because they do not form as many orators as 
they have pupils ? The more maturely 1 have reflected 
upon the art in question, the more clearly I am con- 
vinced that it may be assimilated to the other arts. It 
differs from them only in its superior importance. The 
interest and attention that all the rest merit should be 
measured only by their relation, more or less direct, to 
this first of all arts. To setde the utility of any science, 
law, enterprise, or action, I know no better measure 
than to note its influence on human happiness. 

If moral lessons leave but a transient influence, it may 
be attributed to two principal causes ; the weakness of 
our nature, and the contagion of example. A third be- 
longs to those who teach us the doctrine of morals, and 
is found in their exaggeration of their doctrine. They 
elevate the altar of wisdom upon steep mountains ; and 
discourage our first steps, by proclaiming the painful ef- 
forts necessary to scale them. From the sadness of the 



180 



ministers of the worship, it would not be inferred, that 
the divinity of the place was liberal in dispensing pure^ 
pleasures, bright hopes, oblivion of pain, and remem- 
brances almost as pleasant as either. 

It is a fatal error to imagine that it is useful to exag- 
gerate the doctrine of morals. To do this, fails not to 
excite disgust towards the precepts inculcated. Men, 
that have been deceived upon these points, as soon as 
they judge for themselves, in their impatience to shake 
off the yoke of prejudices, are tempted to reject princi- 
ples the most wise with those errors by which they have 
been misled. That we may be heard and followed, let 
us be true. Let us present, with force, the evils which 
the abuse of our faculties brings upon our short career. — 
Let us avow with equal frankness, that we commit an 
egregious mistake, if we refuse, or neglect to draw from 
our facuhies all the advantages in our power, to embel- 
lish life. 

The doctrine of morals is a phrase that has been often 
employed to designate the propagation of false and ex- 
travagant principles. Eor this phrase, which is too worn 
out, and of equivocal import, suppose we substitute a de- 
finition, which will clearly indicate the end, towards 
which, morals ought to be directed. Morals is that which 
teaches the art of happiness. If it be not so, the foun- 
dation of ethics is a mere matter of convention, either 
useless or dangerous. 

Morals should be taught only as subservient to happi- 
ness. Austerity should be banished equally from the 
manner of teaching and from the matter that is taught. — 
'They are the useful teachers, whose tenderness ol heart 
impels them rather to inspire virtue than to enjoin it ; and 



181 



whose brilliant imagination enables them to offer wise 
principles under such pleasant forms as charm the mind 
and awaken curiosity. If 1 were to point to one of 
the best works on morals, according to my judgment, I 
would name ' The Vicar of Wakefield.'' To present a 
family struggling with every form of misfortune, and con- 
stantly opposing resignation or courage to each, is to 
offer the sublimest painting that it is possible to execute. 
The concurrence of genius and virtue could alone have 
conceived the idea. All good men owe the tribute of 
gratitude and veneration to the memory of the author. 

The concurrent influence of public institutions and ed- 
ucation would be necessary to render the general habits 
conformable to happiness. Books, the influence of 
which 1 certainly have not exaggerated, may be useful 
to men, raised by the discipline of their reason above 
the multitude. That man is happy, who knows how to 
add good books to the number of his friends, who often 
retires from the world to enjoy their peaceful and in- 
structive conversation, and always brings back serenity, 
courage and hope. 

Were the doctrine true, that it is impossible to increase 
the happiness or diminish the evils of life, it is not per- 
ceived that it would not still be necessary to follow my 
principles. Preach this discouraging doctrine to a good 
man, and you may afflict him, but wifl obtain no influ- 
ence over his conduct. He will always strive to im- 
prove his condition, mitigate the sufferings that press up- 
on him, and render men more compassionate and happy. 
Such noble efforts cannot be entirely lost. The pure in- 
tentions, the sincere wishes, which he forms for the good 
16 



182 



of his kind, give to his mind a pleasant serenity. It as- 
sures his own happiness to meditate the means of increas- 
ing that of others. 



LETTER XXVI. 

THE CHOICE OF A PROFESSION. 

The considerate Knight of La Mancha would not dis- 
miss his follower and friend to the government of Bara- 
taria, without a few more last words, and without arming 
him for his high functions with a copioushomily of coun- 
sels and admonitions. Before I leave you to the stern 
encounter of the painful emergencies of life, to unravel its 
intricacies, and settle its innumerable perplexing and dif- 
ficult alternatives, I do not mean to oppress your mem- 
ory with the thousand and one particular directions, 
to meet every imaginable occurrence with the right mode 
of conduct. Innumerable cases of perplexity will be con- 
tinually occurring, that can only be settled by extempore 
judgment and prudence. I shall hmit my counsels to a 
single one among the many questions of universal applica- 
tion, each one of which present a great variety of aspects 
and alternatives ; questions of difficult solution for the 
young ; and yet on the right disposal of which depend their 
character, success and happiness in life. Among the sub- 
jects to which I refer, are, the choice of a profession — de- 
cision in regard to our plans and projects — the selection 
of our company — the dispositions with which we should 



183 



regard the place assigned ns in society — the deportment 
appropriate to gentlemen and ladies — the proper se- 
lection of books — the mode and place of worship, and 
what are the best evidences of true wisdom in character. 
The first of these is the only one upon which I shall offer 
you my remarks. 

In the choice of a profession, the first point to be con- 
sulted is our physical and mental temperament and 
endowment, or aptitude. That some are constitut- 
ed for sedentary and inactive pursuits, others to beat 
the anvil, follow the plough, or mount the reeling 
mast w^ith a firm step in the uproar of a tempest ; some 
for the bar, others for the pulpit, and still others to be 
musicians, painters, poets or engineers, I consider a 
truth so universally and obviously taught by observation 
and experience, that I shall ^not deem it necessary to 
pause to prove it to such as would contest it. I am suf- 
ficiently informed that there are those who contend that 
all minds are formed equal and alike — and that all the 
tjfter differences result from education and circumstances. 
With them, Virgil and Byron had no constitutional apti- 
tudes to poetry, and the same training that gave Handel 
and Gluck their preeminence in music, would have im- 
parted to any other mind equal skill. According to their 
system. La Place and Zerah Colburn were no earlier or 
more strongly inclined to mathematics, than other child- 
ren. These sapient physiologists in descending to the 
animal tribes, ought to find, that web-footed animals had 
no natural aptitude for water, the canine tribes for ani- 
mal food, and the ruminating, to feed on grass and veg- 
etables. I shall leave those who hold this dogma to re- 
tain it unquestioned so far as I am concerned ; and they 



184 



will be obliged to leave me to mine, which is, that there 
are immense differences in the physical and mental con- 
stitution, differences which every enlightened parent dis- 
covers in his children from the very dawn of their facul- 
ties — differences which every intelligent instructer notes 
in his pupils, as soon as he becomes intimately acquaint- 
ed with them — differences w^iich, to keen and close ob- 
servation, distinguish more or less each individual in the 
immense mass of society. No matter how much alike 
these persons are reared and trained ; the most striking 
diversities of endowment are often observed in members 
of the same family, reared and educated with all possi- 
ble uniformity. This is, no doubt, a beautiful trait of that 
general impress of variety, which providence has marked 
upon every portion of the animate and inanimate crea- 
tion. Nature has willed, that not only men should pos- 
sess an untiring diversity of form, countenance and mind, 
but that not two pebbles on the shore, or insects in the 
air, should be found precisely alike. The sign manual 
of the Creator on his works is a grand and infinite variety. 

The physiological inquiry whence these differences 
of temperament and apntude arise, is one, which belongs 
to another subject ; though I have no wish to conceal my 
belief, that the fundamental positions of phrenology are 
as immovably founded in fact, and as certainly follow 
from observation, as the leading axioms of any physical 
science. It is enough for my present purpose, that the 
order of every form of society calls for an infinite variety 
of aptitude, talent and vocation, and that nature has fur- 
nished the requisite variety of endowment, adequately to 
meet those calls. 

The ancient system, still in use, goes on the supposi- 



185 



lion, that all minds are originally alike ; and that all child- 
ren are equally fit to be trained for each of the vocations. 
Hence we see tailors at the anvil, and blacksmiths on 
the shopboard, innumerable excellent ploughmen generat- 
ing prose, and sleeping at the bar and pulpit, and ingenious 
fiddlers ruined as engineers ; in a word, all that ludicrous 
disarrangement and seeming play at cross purposes, in 
virtue of which, men, who would have been borne, by a 
strong current, to the first place in the profession for 
which nature designed them, become dull and useless in 
another. A great part of the whole labor of instruction 
has thus been worse than thrown away. It has been the 
hard effort of poetic fiction, laboring the huge stone up 
an acclivity, to see it recoil and hear it thunder back 
again ; the effort to circumvent, and cross the purposes of 
nature. 

It seems to me to be among the most responsible in- 
q«iries of a parent and a conscientious instructer, what 
pursuit or calling is indicated for his child by his tempera- 
ment and aptitude? The boy, who, like Pope, even in 
childhood lisps in numbers, because the numbers come, 
will probably be found to have not only an ear for the 
peculiar harmony of rhythm, but an inventive mind, stored 
with images, and a quick eye to catch the various phases 
of nature and society. If placed under favorable cir- 
cumstances, and judicious training, this child will become 
a poet, while ninetynine in a hundred of those, who 
make verses, could by no forcing of nature ever rise 
higher than rhymers. Thus may be detected the em- 
bryo germs of temperament, endowment and character, 
which give the undeveloped promise of the future orator, 
lawyer, mathematician, naturalist, mechanician, in a word, 
16* 



186 



of the mind fitted to attain distinction in any walk in so- 
ciety. I am aware of the mistakes, which fond and dot- 
ing parents are likely to make, in interpreting an equiv- 
ocal, perhaps an accidental sally of the cherished child, 
to be a sure proof of genius and endowment. No judi- 
cious and intelligent parent will be in much danger of be- 
ing led astray by fondness so weak and misguided. — 
Wherever real endowment exists, it never fails to put 
forth continual indications. It is the elastic vigor of na- 
ture working at the root, to which no foolish partiality 
will be blind. 

It is true, that nature, equally beneficent in what she 
has granted, and what she has withheld, forms the mil- 
lion for the common duties and undistinguished employ- 
ments ; stamps them at once vrith a characteristic uni- 
formity and variety ; and sends them forth with specific 
adaptations, but not so strongly marked, as not to be mis- 
taken with comparative impunity. Hence the ordinary 
pursuits and employments of Hfe are conducted with gen- 
eral success, notwithstanding these smaller mistakes in 
regard to endowment. 

Not so in those rarer instances, where she has seen fit 
to stamp the clear and strong impress of peculiar endow- 
ment and aptitude, in which the embryo poet, painter, 
mathematician, naturalist, and orator are indicated by 
such unequivocal signs, as cannot easily be overlooked, 
or mistaken by any competent judge. Hence, in the 
biography of most of those u'ho have truly and greatly 
distinguished themselves, we are informed that the most 
ordinary people about them were perfectly aware of the 
harbingers of their future greatness. I am confident, 
that to keen and faithful observation these harbingers are 



187 



as palpable in the germ, as in the development. To 
mistake in such a case, and not only to withdraw the 
youthful aspirant from the career to which nature beck- 
ons him, but to force him into one, in which every ef- 
fort must be rowing against the stream, is to consign him 
to an Egyptian bondage, a slavery of the soul, by 
which many a spirit of firmer mould has been broken 
down, and lost to society, and others worse than lost, 
rendered the scourge and curse of all with whom their 
lot was cast. 

Such as have arrived at a maturity of reason and 
years, to have the responsibility of the choice of a pro- 
fession cast upon themselves, will infer, what are my 
views in regard to the first element, by which they 
ought to be directed. It involves a previous question, 
for what pursuit or calling their temperament, faculties 
and powers best fit them ? By long and close observa- 
tion, pursued with a fidelity proportioned to its impor- 
tance, by intent study of themselves, as called out by 
the changes of their health and prospects, the fluctua- 
tions of their spirits, their collisions with society, in all 
the contingencies that befall them, they can scarcely fail 
to form some conception of the peculiar cast of their 
powers, and the walk in life, for which their capabilities 
are best adapted. If they select wisely in this respect, 
habit and time will certainly render it the profession of 
their inclinations. 

As soon as the mind begins to survey the professions, 
in legard to the honors, emolument and success, which 
they respectively offer, there is great danger, lest imagina- 
tion, taking the place of reason, should look at the scene 
through a prism, and see all the chances of an illusive bril- 



188 



liancy of promise, which sober experience will be sure to 
disappoint. There are the immense promises of the 
law, alluring a crowd of aspirants and competitors, the 
greater portion of whom must fail to realize their expec- 
tations. There are the honors of the physician, binding 
him, by the strongest of all ties, to the confidence and af- 
fection of the families that employ him. He exercises 
the only profession that does not depend upon the ca- 
price of fashion, or the vibrations of transient feeling. — 
There is the ministry, with its time-honored claims, its pe- 
culiar title to be admitted to the privacy ofajffection, sick- 
ness and death, and its paramount capability of the high- 
est forms of that only eloquence that swells and softens 
the heart, by coming home to men's business and bosoms. 
There is the varied range, and the rapidly acquired for- 
tunes of merchandize and commerce; the growing inter- 
est and importance of the new portico to a new order of 
nobility, manufactures. There is itgriculture, always 
seen to be the most satisfactory and useful of employ- 
ments, and now rapidly coming to be viewed in the light 
of scientific investigation and of a liberal pursuit. To ad- 
just and settle the respective views, which the judgment 
and imagination will take of the chances of these various 
pursuits, and their contiguity to love, marriage, wealth, 
and distinction, will be found to be no easy task. Some- 
times one view will predominate — sometimes another ; 
and the mind appears like a pendulum vibrating between 
them. 

Reason presents one decisive view of the subject. All 
these chances — all these balances of advantage and dis- 
advantage have long since settled to their actual and 
natural level. If the law presents more tempting baits, 



189 



and more rich and glittering prizes, over-crowded com- 
petition, heart-wearing scramble, difficulty of rising 
above the common level, into the sun and air of distinc- 
tion, are appended, as inevitable weights, in the opposing 
scale. The advantages and disadvantages of all the pro- 
fessions are adjusted by the level of society, exactly in 
the same way. He who is guided in this inquiry by 
common sense, will comprehend at a glance, that it is im- 
possible, in the nature of things, to combine all the advan- 
tages and evade all the disadvantages of any one pursuit. 
No expectation more irrational and disappointing can be 
indulged, than to unite incompatible circumstances of 
happiness. The inquirer must reflect, that such a pur- 
suit connects a series of fortunate chances ; but there 
are the counterbalancing evils. Such another has a dif- 
ferent series of both. It is folly to expect to form an 
amalgam of these immiscible elements. Reason can ex- 
pect no more than that we unite in the calling, finally fixed 
upon, as many fortunate circumstances as possible, and 
avoid, as far as may be, its inconveniences and evils. 



NOTES 



NOTES 



Note 1, page 39. 

The history of circumstances under which I commenced 
reading the hook of M. Droz, sur V art (T etre heureuse, the 
substance of the first chapter of which is given as above, will 
not be irrelevant, I would hope, to you, if to others. It was 
a beautiful April morning, and I had wandered away from the 
town, with the book in my hand, among the hills. I inhaled 
a bland atmosphere that just ruffled half formed leaves, and 
shook from trees, shrubs and flowers the pearly drops and the 
delicious aroma of the season. A dun, purple, smoky vapor 
veiled the brilliancy of the sun and gave the face of nature 
its most exquisite coloring. A repose, like sleep, seemed to 
rest upon the earth, only interrupted by the ruminating of 
the flocks and herds on the hill sides. The bees sped away 
to their nectar cells from tree and flower, leaving upon the 
dark and fleeting line of their passage through the air a 
lulling hum like the tones of an Eolian harp. A large town, 
with its ceaseless and heavy roll of mingled sounds, lay out- 
stretched beneath my feet. Painted boats were slowly wend- 
ing their way along a canal from the town, and winding their 
course round the foot of the hills. Before me was a vast 
panorama of activity, business, commerce and all the accom- 
paniments of a busy town. A few paces behind me, and I 
was plunged in a forest where town and commerce and life 
were hidden as if by the shifting of a scene, and the jay 
screamed, and the woods showed as to the red ma^ who had 
17 



194 



seen them centuries before. A beautiful spring branch mur- 
mured by me in its deep and flood-worn channel down the 
glen. A little advance spread the town before me. A little 
retreat gave me back to the wilduess of nature in the forest. 
Here I had often enjoyed much of the little that life allows 
us to enjoy, in quiet communion with nature and my own 
thoughts. I had never experienced it in higher measures 
than at this moment Could I, by a volition, have arrested 
the flight of time and the succession of sensations, here 
would I have fixed the pundum stans of existence, and been 
content to have this scene always around me, and the enjoy- 
ment of this union of meditation and repose, perpetual. 

But a change came over my thoughts, as I read the quaint 
axiom, laid down with such mathematical precision, man is 
formed to he happy. What I saw and what I felt, my own 
consciousness assented to the proposition. But, startled by 
a transient feeling of pain, a new train of ideas succeeded. I 
have only to pass, said l, the short interval between this repose, 
verdure, quietness and internal satisfaction, to reach the scene 
of dust and smoke before me. Besides spires and mansions, 
I shall see hovels, poor, blind, lame, squalid, blaspheming 
youth, imbecile age, prostitutes, beggars, haunts of felons 
and outlaws ; and even in the abodes of what shows external 
comfort and opulence, the sick and dying hanging in agonies 
of suspense upon the countenance of their physician and 
friends, as they catch gleams of hope or shades of despair 
from their aspect. Many of these sick, even if they recover, 
will only be restored to trembling age, to perpetual and incu- 
rable infirmity, and to evils worse than death. Yet, unhappy 
in living, and afraid to die, they cling to this wretched exist- 
ence as though it were the highest boon. These varied 
shades of misery that the picture before me will present to 
the slightest inspection, in ten thousand forms and combina- 
tions, are visible in every part of our world. I, too, shall soon 
add to the deepness of the shading. My friends will depart 
in succession ; and in my turn, on the bed of death, I shall 
look in the faces of those most dear to me, as I am compelled 
to depart out of life. What an affecting contrast with what 
I see and what I am ! 



195 



Why there is this partial evil in the world is not a question 
which I shall here attempt to vex ; for I could add nothing to 
what has already been said upon the subject. It is enough 
that the evil does actually exist. Is it remediless ? Can life be 
so spent as to leave a balance of enjoyment set over against 
the evil ? These are my questions. There will always be in- 
equality, ignorance, vice, disease, a measureless amount of mis- 
ery and death. What portion of the evils of life can be cured ? 
What portion must be manfully, piously endured ? What tran- 
sient gleams of joy can be made to illumine the depth of shade ? 

I yield entire faith to the doctrine before you, that, estimate 
these evils as highly as you may, a balance of enjoyment may 
still be struck in favor of life. I do not doubt, that more than 
one half the suffering and sorrow which every individual en- 
dures is simply of his own procuring, and not only that it might 
have been wholly avoided, but that positive enjoyment might 
have been substituted in its place. An inconceivable mass 
of misery would at once be struck from the sum if, as I have 
already remarked, we knew the physical, organic and moral 
laws of our being, and conformed ourselves to them. A uni- 
form, consistent and thorough education would cure us of innu- 
merable errors of opinion, injurious habits, and a servile con- 
formity to established and prescribed prejudices, and would im- 
part to us wisdom, force of character and resignation, to enable 
us to sustain, as we ought, those that are unavoidable. Imper- 
fection, pain, decay and death, in the inevitable measures be- 
longing to organized beings, would remain. The dignity of 
true philosophy, the stern consciousness of the necessity of 
courage, profound and filial submission to the divine will, 
and the well defined and investigated hopes of religion would 
accomplish the remainder. 

Consider one single evil — fear, unnecessary fear, an entirely 
gratuitous infusion of bitterness in the cup of life. I ask the 
man who has seen fourscore winters to tell me, were all that 
he has suiFered in his pilgrimage cast into one account, 
what would be the greatest item in the sum ? I believe that 
almost every one might answer, that more than half might be 
charged to one single source of suffering — fear — fear of 



196 



opinion, reproach, shame, poverty, pain, danger, disease and 
death. I pause not to consider the usual dull illustrations of 
the wisdom and utility of assigning- to us the instinct of fear, 
to put us on our guard and to enable us to ward off evils. It 
is not this instinctive shrinking and vigilance to avoid evil 
that I consider. Let education have its most perfect work in 
raising us superior to this servile and tormenting passion, 
and too much of it would still remain. Of all that we have 
suffered from fear, what portion has been of any service in 
shielding us from that which we apprehended ? Not only 
have we avoided no evil in consequence, but the enervating 
indulgence of this passion has taken from us our quickness of 
foresight, our coolness of deliberation, our firmness of action 
and resolve, by the exercise of which, we might have escaped 
all that we dreaded. We may calculate then, that every 
pang we have felt from this source has been just so much 
gratuitous agony. 

Not only natural instincts, but acquired habits are trans- 
mitted ; and this evil of fearfulness, this foreboding of ap- 
prehension, shaping the fashion of uncertain ills, has been 
the growing inheritance of countless generations ; and a 
shrinking and effeminate timidity has been woven into our 
mental constitution by nature. Education, instead of resist- 
ing, or counteracting, or diminishing the transmitted mischief^ 
has labored with terrible effect,, to make it a principle and a 
motive to action, and the most efficient engine of the inculca- 
ted systems of morality and religion. Fear of death, and a 
slavish terror, springing from misapprehensions of the charac- 
ter of the divine being, and unmanly and debilitating horrors in 
regard to the unknown future in another life, these have been 
the chief sources of this evil. Terribly have the father and 
the mother, the minister and the schoolmaster, and general pre- 
scription and example concurred, to strengthen this barbarous 
instrument of governing, which never inspired a good action, 
and which it would be cruel to apply to a slave. Horrible 
have been the bondage, the mean abjectness of spirit, the 
long agony of the soul, which this inculcation has inspired. — 
We have been sedulously trained in a course of discipline. 



197 



which has made us afraid of our own shadows in the dark, and 
inspired us with shrinking and terror in view of a silent and 
peaceful corse, which, in the eye of sober reason, should 
originate associations no more fearful, than a waxen figure. 
We, who are the victims of this inborn and instinctive inheri- 
tance, we, who have had it inwoven by precept, education and 
example, and the prevalent impression, that it is one of the 
purest and most religious motives of action, are best able 
from our own consciousness, and the memory of what we 
have suffered from it, to present just views of it to others. — 
It may be in us an ingrafted principle, too deep to be uproot- 
ed by any rules, or reasons, or system of discipline ; a habit 
too unyieldingly become a part of our nature, to be overcome. 
But with minds more docile, with temperaments more pliant, 
with habits less fixed, it may be otherwise. The next gener- 
ation may transmit a more manly and less timid nature to the 
generations to come. Education, building on the basis of 
minds of more force, may then accomplish its perfect work, 
imbuing them with a filial confidence in the Almighty, a 
sense of the beauty of well-doing, and a perfect fearlessness 
in regard to everything, but doing wrong. The happier gen- 
eration of that era, will be spared the agony of all deaths, but 
the single one of nature ; and will be fortified by discipline, 
and the force of general opinion and example, to regard 
this inevitable law of our being, this merciful provision of 
providence, this rest for the worn and weary, as the hireling re- 
gards the evening shade, when he reposes from his labors 
and receives his reward. I shall elsewhere advert to this 
evil in more detail, and point out such remedies, as appear 
to me to be suggested by reason, education and religion. 

Note 2, page 41. 

This classification of the great divisions of our species, as 
they are occupied in the pursuit of happiness, seems to me to 
unite truth with poetry and philosophy, and to be both happy 
and just. The disappointed, who affirm that the earth offers no 
happiness, the gloomy, who view life as a place of penance, 
17^ 



198 



austerity and tears, the dissipated and voluptuous, who seek 
only pleasure, and whose doctrine is, that life offers no happi- 
ness but in unbridled indulgence, the ambitious, who consid-^ 
er happiness to consist only in wealth, power and distinction, 
and a very numerous class, who have no object in view, but 
to vegetate through life by chance, constitute the great mass 
of mankind. The number of those who have lived by system, 
and disciplined themselves to the wise and calculating pur- 
suit of happiness, has always been small. But there have still 
been some, enough to prove the practicability of the art. — 
Wherever we find a person, who declares that he has lived 
happily, if his enjoyments have been of a higher kind, than 
the mere vegetative easiness of a felicitous temperament and 
an unthinking joyousness, we shall find on inquiry, that he 
has been a philosopher in the highest and best sense. He may 
scarcely understand the import of the term ; but, however 
ignorant of systems, and the learning of the schools, if he 
have made it his chief business, to learn by the study of him- 
self, and general observation, how to be happy, he is the true 
sage. He may well be content, let others regard him as they 
may ; for he has put in requisition the best wisdom of life. 
No one maxim, especially, ever included more important and 
practical truth, than that, to be happy, we must assiduously 
train ourselves to retain through life a keen and juvenile 
freshness of sensibility to enjoyment, and must early learn to 
anticipate the efiect of experience and years in cultivating a 
stern indifibrence, a strong spirit of endurance, and unshrink- 
ing obtuseness to pain. It has been my fortune to see ex- 
amples of persons who enjoyed life even to old age with all 
the ardor and the quick perception of the young, and who 
had always been as remarkable for their impassive and heroic 
endurance of pain. 

Note 3, page 43. 

We are told, in ridicule of this study, that men have been 
very happy without rules, and before any system had been 
laid down, and will continue to be happy, unconscious of the 



199 



means by which they arrived at their enjoyment. So have 
men reasoned without acquaintance with the rules of logic ; 
but this proves not the inutility of the study. Let the objec- 
tor convince us that the happy without thought and rules 
would not have been happier if they had sought enjoyment 
with the keen and practical intelligence of a Franklin. 

Whatever men do well without definite aim and without 
rules, it is clear to me, they would do better with these ad- 
vantages. The same argument equally militates with all 
means of moral instruction. ' The world,' the objector may 
say, *■ will proceed as before, say what we may.' But this 
would be deemed no just ground of objection to an attempt to 
improve the age, though the efforts may have little visible 
and apparent effect. 

Note 4; page 44. 

No term has been more hackneyed, in these days, than 
education. We have had system upon system, and treatise 
upon treatise ; and more has been written and declaimed 
upon this subject than almost any other. And yet, scarcely a 
word has been said upon a grand and radical defect in all 
existing systems which reduces to a very humble scale the 
results of the best concerted efforts. I lay out of the question 
all other incongruities, that I might easily mention, and come 
directly to that which I have chiefly in my mind. Each of 
the different instructors, through whose forming hands the 
pupil passes, communicates to him different, militant and 
incompatible impulses ; so that, instead of a continuous opera- 
tion and an onward movement, it seems to be the work of each 
successive teacher to undo that of all the others. The father 
and mother, besides various minor inculcations, labor, as their 
highest object, to infuse into the mind of their child, ambition, 
the desire of preeminence and distinction. The schoolmaster 
instils the same principles under such different circumstances 
as to render the envy, rivalry and competition of the school- 
room almost another series of impulses. The minister and 
the catechism enjoin humility, meekness and a disposition to 



200 



prefer others in honor hefore themselves. 'Be honest and 
high-minded,' say the parents and teachers. ' Be adroit, and 
circumvent those who are watching to take advantage of your 
weakness and inexperience,' says the master at the counting- 
desk. The elder friends teach one class of maxims, and the 
younger another. The actual world inculcates rules different 
from all the rest. Thus the parents, the school-master, the 
minister, the politician, society and the world are continually 
varying the direction of the youthful traveller. No wonder 
that most people either have no character, or one that is a 
compound of the most incongruous elements. A pupil, to 
have a strong, wise, marked and efficient character, should 
have had it steadily trained to one end ; and every impulse 
ought to have been in a right line and concurrent with every 
other. Such must be the case before honest and uniform 
characters will be formed. 

There is little force in the objection, that he who has not 
been constantly happy himself ought not to presume to teach 
others to be happy. On the contrary, as the author beauti- 
fully suggests, none can discuss, with so much experience and 
force of truth, the dangers of shipwreck, as they who have 
themselves suffered it. If the art of happiness can be taught, 
the teacher must necessarily have paid the price of a qualifica- 
tion to impart it, in having been himself unhappy. Conscious 
that he had the susceptibility of enjoyment, and wanted only 
the right direction of the means, he will be able to set up 
way-marks, as a warning to others, at the points where he 
remembers that he went astray himself. 

Note 5, page 44. 

The necessity of moderating our desires and reducing^ 
ihem within the limits of what we may reasonably hope to 
acquire, has been the beaten theme of prose and song for so 
many ages that the triteness of repetition has finally caused 
the great truth to be almost disregarded by moralists. Yet, 
who can calculate the sum of torment that has been inflicted 
by wild and unreasonable desires, by visionary and puerile 



201 



expectations, beyond all probable bounds of means to realize 
them, indulged and fostered until they have acquired the 
force of habit ! Whose memory cannot recur to suiEFerings 
from envy and ill will, generated by cupidity, for the pos- 
sessions and advantages of others that we have not ! Who 
can count the pangs which he has endured from extravagant 
and unattainable wishes ! Poetry calls our mortal sojourn a 
vale of tears ; yet what ingenuity to multiply the gratuitous 
means of self- torment! Has another health, wealth, beauty, 
fortune, endowment, which I have not ? Envy will neither 
take them from him, nor transfer thcui to me. Why, then, 
should I allow vultures to prey upon my spirit? Learn 
neither to regret what you want and cannot supply, nor to 
hate him who is more fortunate. With all his apparent ad- 
vantages over you, he wants, perhaps, what you may possess, 
a tranquil mind. There is little doubt that you are the happier 
person if you contemplate his advantages and his possessions 
with a cheerful and unrepining spirit. 

I present two considerations only, as inducements to con- 
trol and regulate your desires. 1. In indulging them beyond 
reason you are fostering internal enemies and becoming a 
self-tormentor. In the quaint language of the ancient 
divines, they are like fire, good servants but terrible masters* 
2d. The higher gifts of fortune, the common objects of envi- 
ous desire, are awarded to but a few. The number of those 
who may entertain any reasonable hope of reaching them is 
very small. But every one can moderate his desires. Every 
one can set bounds to his ambition. Every one can limit his 
expectations. What influence can fortune, events, or power 
exercise over a person, who has learned to be content with a 
little, and who has acquired courage to resign even that 
without repining ? Franklin might well smile at the impo- 
tent malice of those who would deprive him of his means and 
his business, when he proved to them that he could live on 
turnips and rain water. It is not the less true or important, 
because it has been a million times said, that happiness, the 
creature of the mind, dwells not in external things. 



202 



Note 1, page 47. 

Wherever civilized man has been found, the first effort of 
his mind, beyond the attainment of his animal wants, has been 
to travel into the regions of imagination, to create a nobler 
and more beautiful world than the dull and common-place 
existing one, to assign to man a higher character and purer 
motives than belong to the actual race. To possess a frame 
inaccessible to pain and decay, and to dwell in eternal spring, 
surrounded by beauty and truth, is an instinctive desire. A 
mind of any fertility can create and arrange such a scene ; 
and in this dreaming occupation the sensations are tranquil- 
lizing and pleasant beyond the more exciting enjoyment of 
actual fruition. With the author, I deem the propensity for 
this sort of meditation neither unworthy in itself, nor tending 
to consequences to be deprecated. So far as my own expe- 
rience goes, and I am not without my share, it neither ener- 
vates nor satiates. It furnishes enjoyment that is calm and 
soothing ; and such enjoyment, instead of enfeebling, invigor- 
ates the mind to sustain trials and sorrows. Why should we 
not enter into every enjoyment that is followed by no pain- 
ful consequences ? Why should we not be happy when we 
may ? Is he not innocently employed who is imagining a 
fairer scene — a better world — more benevolence, and more 
joy than this ' visible diurnal sphere' affords ? Addison is 
never presented to me in a light so amiable as when he relates 
his day-dreams, his universal empire, in which he puts down 
all folly and all wickedness, and makes all his personages 
good and happy. Every writer who has produced a romance 
worth reading, has been endowed in this way, as a matter 
of course ; and I confidently believe that the greatest and 
best of men have been most strongly inclined to this sort of 
mental creation. May not their noblest achievements have 
been the patterns of those archetypes? I have no doubt that 
imaginings infinitely more interesting than any recorded in ro- 
mances, Arabian tales, or any other work of fiction, have impart- 
ed their transient exhilaration to meditative minds, and have 
passed away with the things that never grew into the material 



203 



and concrete grossness of sensible existence. If ink and pa- 
per and printing could have been created as cheaply and readi- 
ly as a new earth and better men and women, and scenes more 
like what we hope for at last, the world would have had be- 
queathed to it more volumes, than would have weighed down 
all the ponderous dulness of by-gone romance. I cannot as- 
sure myself, that you would have been amused, or instructed in 
reading ; but you would then have been able to form some idea 
of the hours of pain, embarrassment, lack of all external means 
of pleasant occupation, journeying, cold and watching, that 
have been beguiled by this employment. I only add that, so 
far as my experience extends, the first calm days of spring, 
and the period of Indian summer in autumn are most propi- 
tious to this sort of revery. 

Note 8, page 48. 

These and the subsequent views of ambition in this essay 
of M. Droz, have been the theme of severe and sweeping 
strictures upon the general tendency of his book. Ambitious 
and aspiring men will find it ridiculous, of course, to exact, as 
a pre-requisite to the pursuit of happiness, the abandonment, 
or the moderation of ambitious thoughts, especially in such a 
country as ours, where some boon is held out to tempt these 
aspirings in almost every condition, from the mansion to the 
cabin. It may not be amiss for men, who are themselves as- 
pirants, and to whom the access to distinction and power 
is easy, and the attainment probable, to declaim against the 
tendency of these maxims. I know well, that in every rank 
and position, the inculcation of aspiring thoughts, emulation 
and rivalry is the first and last lesson, the grand and beaten 
precept, upon which the million are acting. I am well aware 
how many hearts are wrung by all the fierce and tormenting 
passions, associated with this devouring one. I affirm nothing 
in regard to my own interior views, respecting what the world 
calls fame, glory and immortality. Those who are most dear 
to me, will not understand me to be entering my caveat to dis- 
suade them from this last infirmity of noble minds. Could I do 



204 



it with more eloquence than ever yet flowed from tongue or 
pen, there will always be a hundred envious competitors for 
every single niche in the temple of fame. It can be occupied 
but by one ; and he who gains it will exult in his elevation 
only during its freshness and novelty. The rest, to the tor- 
ment of fostered and devouring desires, will add the bitter- 
ness of disappointment. 

Since it is a fact out of question, that the greater portion of 
the species can never secure the objects of their ambition, 
is it ill judged in one who treats upon the science of happi- 
ness, to write for the million instead of the few favorites of 
fortune ? The principles of a philosophic investigation ought 
not to be narrowed down to meet the wishes of the few. The 
question is, whether, taking into view ambition and all the as- 
sociated feelings, the toil of pursuit, and the difficulty and un- 
frequency of the attainment of its objects, it is, on the whole, 
favorable to happiness to cherish the passion, or not ? I am 
clear, that even the successful aspirants, if their rivalry were 
more generous and philanthropic, and their indulgence of the 
cankering and corroding of ill-concealed envy, derision, hate 
and scorn, were regulated, would be not the less rapid in 
reaching the goal, or happy in the fruition of their attainment. 
I have little doubt, if an exact balance of enjoyment and suffer- 
ing could be struck, at the last hour between two persons, whose 
circumstances in other respects had been similar, one of whom 
had been distinguished in place and power, in consequence of 
cultivating ambition ; and the other obscure in peaceful priva- 
cy, in consequence of having chosen that condition, that the 
scale of happiness would decidedly incline in favor of the latter. 
In a word, it is the index of sound calculation, to prepare for 
the fate of the million, rather than that of the few. Repress 
ambition, as much as we may, there will always remain enough 
to render the world an aceldama, and the human heart a place 
of concentrated torment. 

It is clear, therefore, to me, that in making up the debt and 
credit account of life, in relation to happiness, most of the sen- 
timents associated with ambition, and its prolific family of 
self-tormenting passions, may be set down as gratuitous items 



205 

of misery, superinduced by our own voluntary discipline. I 
shall be asked, what is to stimulate to exertion, to study, toil 
and sacrifice, to j^reat and noble actions, and what shall lead 
to fame and renown, if this incentive be taken away ? I an- 
swer, that, what is ordinarily dignified with the appellation 
of ambition, is a vile mixture of the worst feelings of our na- 
ture. There is in all minds, truly noble, a sufficient impulse 
towards great actions, apart from these movements, which 
are generally the excitements of little and mean spirits. Take 
the whole nature of man into the calculation, and there can 
never be a want of sufficient impulse towards distinction, with- 
out a particle of those contemptible motives, which are general- 
ly put to the account of praiseworthy incitement. Truly great 
men have been remarkable for their exemption from envy, the 
inseparable concomitant of conscious deficiency ; and for a 
certain calm and tranquil spirit, indicating moderation and 
comparative indiflEerence in the struggle of emulation. They 
are able to say, in regard to the highest boon of ambition, 

' I neither spurn, nor for the favor call, 
It comes unasked-for, if it comes at all.' 

Why, then, in a world, and in an order of society, where 
ambition, with its associated passions, brings in an enormous 
amount to the mass of human self-inflicted torment, should he 
be censured, who advises, that in the philosophic and calcu- 
lating pursuit of happiness, this element of misery should be, 
as much as possible, repressed ? The question may be more 
strongly urged, when we take into the account, the consid- 
eration, that the far greater portion of the species must calcu- 
late on the bitterness of disappointment, in addition to the 
miseries which are inseparable from the indulgence of this 
passion. All the inordinate thirst for power and fame of the 
countless aspirants, who desire to be Alexanders, Ceesars and 
Napoleons, not only is so much subtracted from their enjoy- 
ment, and added to their misery, but has little tendency to 
aid them to attainments, which, after all, are as frequently the 
award of contingency, as of calculation. 

Let the evils of retirement and obscurity, be fairly balanced 
18 



206 

with those of gratified ambition, and let the aspirant feel, that 
they are absolutely incompatible, the one with the other. — 
Let him then make his election, in view of the consequences, 
and not foolishly expect that he can unite incompatible advan- 
tages. If he chooses the dust and scramble of the arena, and 
the intoxicating pleasures at the goal, let him not repine, that 
he cannot unite with them those of repose, retirement and a 
tranquil mind. If, on the contrary, he prefers to hold on the 
noiseless tenor of his way, in peace and privacy, let not the 
serpents of envy sting him, when he sees the car of the for- 
tunate aspirant drawn forward by the applauding million. Let 
not murmurs arise in his heart, when he hears, or reads of the 
rewards, honors and immortality of those whom he rnay be- 
lieve to be endowed no higher than himself with talents or 
virtues. Let him say, ' no one can show me the mind, or paint 
me the consciousness of that man. Fortune and my^ own 
choice have assigned me the shade. Let me not embitter 
its coolness and its satisfactions, by idle desires to unite ad- 
vantages, that are, in their nature, incongruous. Let me re- 
memb^er, that mine is the condition of ihe million. My Crea- 
tor cannot have doomed so vast a proportion of his creatures 
to a state, which is necessarily miserable. All that remains 
to me, is to make the best of the common lot.' 

Note 9.. page 50, 

Severe strictures have, also, been passed upon this maxim. 
I well know, that the common rules proposed to the young, in 
commencing their serious and more advanced studies, lead 
them to look forward to happiness, as a garland suspended 
from the goal, an object only in remote expectation, the frui- 
tion of which should be hoped for only at a period of life, 
when few are capable of enjoyment, even if the means were 
in their power. To calculate on comfort and repose, early 
in life, has been considered as a sort of effeminate weakness. 

These unphilosophic views of education have, more than al- 
most any other, thrown over the whole course of preparatory 
discipline for life, a repulsive gloom, tending to fill the mind of 



207 



the pupil with dismay and disgust in view of his studies. — 
The young should be early imbued with the sentiment, that 
God sent them here to be happy, not in indolence, intoxica- 
tion, voluptuousness or insanity ; but in earnest and vigorous 
discipline for coming duties. And at this bright epoch, when 
nature spreads a charm over existence, a philosophic teacher 
may easily train them to invest their studies, labors, and pur- 
suits, and perhaps even their privations and severer toils, with 
a coloring of cheerfulness and gayety, when contemplated 
as the only means of discipline by which they may hope to 
reach a desired end. They should be trained to meet events, 
and brave the shock of adversity with a firm and searching 
purpose, to find either a way to mitigate the pressure, or to 
increase self-respect by the noble pride of manifesting to them- 
selves, with how much calmness and patient endurance they 
can overcome the inevitable ills of their condition. In other 
words, they should make enjoyment a means, as well as an end, 
that they may carry onward, from their firsc days, an accumu- 
lating stock of happiness, with which courage and cheerful- 
ness may paint future anticipations in the mellow lustre of 
past remembrances. In this way the bow of promise maybe 
made to bend its brilliant arch over every period of this tran- 
sient existence, connecting Avhat has been, and what will be, 
in the same radiant span. 

Entertaining such views of the direction which might be 
given to the juvenile mind, I mourn over those ,7eak parents, 
who are nursing their children with effeminate fondness, not 
allowing the loinds to visit them too roughly, pampering their 
wishes, instead of teaching them to repress them : and rather 
striving to ward from them all pains and privations, than 
teaching them that they must encounter innumerable sorrows 
and disappointments, and disciplining them to breast the ills 
of life with a conquering fortitude. Opulence generally gives 
birth to this injudicious plan of parental education. Penury, 
as little directed by sound views, but irnpelled by the stern 
teaching of necessity, imparts to the children of the poor, a 
much more salutary discipline, and they ordinarily come for- 
ward Avith a more robust spirit, with more vigor, power and 



208 



elasticity ; and it is in this way, that providence adjusts the 
balance of advantages between these different conditions. 

We have all admired the practical philosophy of the man, 
who, when sick of a painful disease, thanked God that 
he was not subject to a still more painful one ; and when 
under the pressure of the latter, found cause for cheer- 
fulness, that he was not visited with both diseases at the 
same time. Akin to this was the noble fortitude of the mari- 
ner, who, when a limb "was carried away by a cannon-ball, 
congratulated himself that it Avas not his head. I do not say 
that any one can lind cheerfulness in contemplating such 
Spartan spirits, but that a philosophy of this sort would dis- 
arm the common ills of life of much of their power, and would 
even enable the sufferer to find enjoyment in the midst of them. 
It would be no disadvantage even to the ambitious and as- 
piring to abstract, from the toils of their pursuit, the bitter and 
corroding spirit of rivalry and envy, and in its stead to cultivate 
sentiments of kindness, complacency and moderation. Let 
their ends be so noble, as to give an air of dignity to the 
means that they employ, and they will throw a splendor of 
self-respect over their course. Let the aspirant say, ' I strug- 
gle not for myself, bat to procure competence for aged pa- 
rents, to gild their declining years with the view of my suc- 
cess. It is for dependent relatives, orphans, the poor and 
friendless, whom Providence has given paticular claims on 
me, that I struggle. It is to benefit and gladden those who are 
dearer to me than life, and not for my own sordid vanity and 
ambition, that I strive to toil up the ascent of fame. 

In fine, the author, while he inculcates the maxim that we 
should, from the beginning, study to number happy days, 
would not teach, as he has been charged with teaching, that 
we may give labor and study and the toil of preparation to 
the winds, and consult only the indolent leading of our pas- 
sions ; for he knows, as do we all, that this course results in 
anything but ' happy days.' He would send us, on the con- 
trary, in pursuit of happiness, to the teaching of wisdom and 
experience, that never bestow impracticable lessons. He 
would only inculcate, that while others have taught us to seek 



209 

ultimate happiness throug'li means of pain, we should make 
the means themselves immediate souices of enjoyment. It 
is a fact out of question, that we may train ourselves to find 
enjoyment in those toils and privations, wliich are to others, 
sources of disgust and sorrow. Who has not thrilled, as he 
read of the author, who, oppressed with cares, infirmities and 
years, took leave of a book, the result of the most laborious and 
protracted study, that was to be published only after his death, 
with a pleasant ode of thankfulness to it, as having furnished 
him agreeable occupation, and beguiled years of sorrow and 
pain ? On this subject, I too can speak experimentally. I 
have often experienced an inward conscious satisfaction in 
realizing the pleasure and enjoyment, which I found in the 
same pursuits and labors, which were the most painful drudg- 
ery to others, equally qualified to pursue them with myself. 
The bee extracts honey from the same flower which to the 
spider yields only poison. 

Nothing but experience can teach us to what extent 
force of character, and a capacity without cowardly shrink- 
ing, to face danger, pain and death, may be acquired. — 
Compare, for example, a militia-man torn from the repose 
of his retreat, and forced into immediate battles, with the 
same person in the same predicament, when he shall have be- 
come a trained veteran. Compare the only child of weak, 
fond and opulent parents, as he is seen in the hour of appre- 
hended shipwreck, or of fierce conflict with the enemy, with 
the sailor-boy, born in the same vicinity, but compelled by 
the rough discipline of poverty, to encounter the elements, 
and the aspect of danger and death from boyhood. 

I shall take occasion hereafter, to remark on the stubborn 
and invincible apathy of the red men of our forests, in 
the endurance of slow fire, and all the forms of torture, which 
the ingenuity of Indian revenge can devise. I no longer 
trace this apparent insensibility to pain and fear, as I former- 
ly did, to a more callous frame, and nerves of obtuser feeling. 
I see in it the astonishing result of their institutions, and the 
influence of public opinion upon them. In the same connex- 
ion, I shall remark upon the testimony which the conduct of 
18* 



210 



martyrs bears to the same point Place a sufficient motive 
before the suiferer^ and the proper witnesses around him, and 
he may be disciplined to endure anything without showing- 
a subdued spirit. The most timid woman will not shrink from 
a surgical operation, when those she loves and respects, sur- 
round her and applaud her courage. Leave her alone with 
the surgeon, and the very sight of his instrument will produce 
shrieks and faintings. The mad personage who leaped the 
Genesee falls, fell a victim, to the influence which encourag- 
.ed vanity and ambition exert upon their subject to spur him on 
to any degree of daring. If the right application of a motive, 
so little worthy as the mere gratification of a moment's vanity,, 
can harden the spirit for such attempts, what might not be ef- 
fected by a discipline ,.vvisely guided by a simple purpose to im- 
part force, energy and unshrinking courage, to meet and van- 
quish the inevitable evUs of life ? To me there is nothing in- 
credible in the story of the Spartan boy, who had stolen the 
fox, and allowed the animal, while concealed under his man- 
tle, to tear his entrails, rather than, by uttering a groan, to 
commit his character for hardihood and capability of adroit 
thieving. Parents, your children will be compelled to en- 
counter fatigue, privation and pain, under any circumstances 
in which they can be placed. You can easUy pamper them 
to an effeminacy that will shrink from any effort, and, if I may 
so quote, 'to die of a rose in aromatic pain;' to be feeble, 
timid, repining, and yet voluptuous. You can as easily teach 
them to find pleasure in labor, and in the sentiment of that 
force of mind, with which they can firmly meet pain, privation, 
danger and death. Train them for the world in which tliey 
are destined to live. Teach, them to quit themselves like men^ 
and be strong. 

Note 10, page 51. 

It is impossible to present a better summary of the essen- 
tials of happiness. As the author remarks, they are difficult 
to unite. Yet, whoever lacks either, must be peculiarly un- 
fortunate, or indulgent to himself, if he cannot trace the want 



211 



to some aberration or neglect of his own. Health, perhaps, is 
the least within our power ; for, by the fault of otir ancestors, 
we may have inherited a constitution and temperament essen- 
tially vitiated and unhealthy. We may lose health by casu- 
alty or by the influence of causes utterly beyond our know- 
ledge or our control. But for one person thus afflicted with 
want of health, it is notorious that a hundred are so from 
causes which they may trace to their own mismanagement. 
Tranquillity of mind, is certainly a frame, on which we have a 
controling influence. Whoever, in our country, has not com>- 
petence, must assuredly seek the cause, if he have health, in 
his own want of industry or management. Most of the com- 
plaints of the caprice, infidelity and unworthiness of friends 
would have a more equitable application to our own want of 
temper, truth and disinterestedness. These things, indispensa- 
ble to happiness, are far more subject to our command, than 
our self-flattery will allow us to imagine. The greater portion 
of those about us might unite all these advantages. Yet, if all 
misery, other than that which arises from Avant of being able 
to unite all these numerous and difficult requisites to happi- 
ness, were abstracted from human nature, I am confident that 
a moiety of the sorrows of earth Avould be removed ; in other 
words, that a philosophic pursuit of happiness, would at once 
deliver us from more than half of our suffering here below. 

Note 11, page 59. 

The memory of almost every person who has been present 
at a funeral, attended by a protestant minister of a certain 
class, will furnish him with recollections of these preposterous 
harangues of attempted consolation. The mourners are in- 
structed that it is sinful to grieve ; that grief implies want of 
faith in the great truths of the gospel ; that Christianity for- 
bids it ; and, more than all, that it argues doubt of the happi- 
ness of the deceased ; or a murmuring want of submission to 
the Divine will. Such doctrines, in the minds of weak and 
superstitious mourners who feel that it is not in their power 
to repress grief, inspire painful distrust and self-reproach j 



212 



and, in men more disciplined in the ways of the world, and 
more acquainted with human nature, contempt for the igno- 
rant folly or gross hypocrisy of the declaimer. The unchang- 
ing constitution of human nature revolts at such maxims. 
Whoever affects to be insensible to the loss of a child, rela- 
tive, or friend, is either a stranger to his own perceptions, 
practises deceit, or has no heart to be grieved. Christianity 
is preeminently the religion of tenderness, and forbids the 
indulgence of no inherent emotion of our nature within its 
proper limits. It is most absurd of all, to suppose that God has 
forbidden, or interprets as murmurs, the sorrows that we feel 
from his stroke. There are few persons so disinterested, 
even if they were assured beyond a doubt, that the person 
they mourn is happy, as not to grieve at the final earthly 
severance which cuts off the accustomed communion of heart ; 
and interdicts the mourner from the sight and participation 
of that happiness. The cause of Christianity has suffered 
beyond calculation, from the exaggeration of its requirements 
by weak enthusiasts, or designing bigots. Distorted views 
and impracticable requisitions have disgusted more persons 
with the system of the gospel than Hume's argument against 
miracles, or all the sophistry of unbelief. The gospel takes 
into view the v/hole nature ot man, and all its precepts an- 
nounce, rzohfmws leges natur<x mutari — we will that the laws 
of nature should not he changed. 

Note 12; page 61. 

It is not necessary to recur to the history of great revolu- 
tions to furnish the most impressive examples of human vi- 
cissitude and instability. The Latin poet had reason for his 
maxim, who said, 

' Si fortuna juvat caveto tolli ; 
Si fortuna tonat caveto mergi.' 

Life in every country and in all time 1ms been full of affect- 
ing instances of the young, beautiful, endowed and opulent 
struck down in the brightest presage of their dawn. That is 



213 

the true philosophy which draws, from continual exposure to 
these blows, a motive, to make the most, in the way of inno- 
cent enjoyment, of the period that is in our power. 

Note 13, page 62. 

This beautiful painting furnishes an impressive emblem of 
the capabiUty of the human constitution, corporeal and mental, 
to assimilate itself to any change ; and of becoming insensible, 
by habit, to any degree of uniform endurance. Those fanat- 
ics in the early ages of the church, preposterously called 
saints, and others like them, professing all forms of religion, 
that may still be found in the oriental countries, who 
sit for years on a pillar under the open sky, or curve them- 
selves into a half circle and remain in that position until their 
forms grow to it, shortly cease to feel much uneasiness in a 
posture which becomes habitual. To restore them to their 
original forms, after nature has affixed her seal of consent 
to the distortion, would, probably, cause as much pain as 
was requisite to acquire the habit. We have all read the 
affecting tale of the prisoner released from the Bastile after 
a confinement of more than a quarter of a century. He found 
the ordinary pursuits and intercourse of life insupportable, 
and begged to be restored to his dungeon. This is a most 
important aspect of the nature of man which parents and_^in- 
structershave as yet scarcely taken into view in their efforts 
to mould the youthful character. Children can as easily be 
formed to be Spartans as Sybarites ; and, in the former case, 
they not only acquire the noble attributes of courage and 
force of character, but contract habits of patient and manly 
endurance, furnishing a better shield against the ills of life 
than any in the command of opulence or foresight. 

Note 14; page 65. 

< Fate leads the willing, drags the unwilling on,' and the 
single question is, by which of these processes would we 
choose to meet our lot? No doctrine of the true philosophy 

18*^ 



214 

lies so obviously on the surface as the wisdom of resignation; 
the disposition, in the exercise of which, more than in any 
order, a wise man differs from the million of murmuring and 
repining beings about him, who are madly struggling with the 
inexorable powers of nature, and doubting their evils by this 
useless and painful resistance. When we can no longer 
either evade or resist fortune, we can, at least, half disarm 
her by a calm and manly resignation. 

Note 15, page 69. 

The instinctive sentiment of the love of country and home 
is beautifully described in these paragraphs. In health and 
good fortune, the amusements and distractions of life, may 
keep this sentiment out of sight. But ' dulces moriens reniin- 
iscitur Argos^ is the feeling with which most strangers die in 
a foreign land. In every heart, rightly constituted, the mo- 
ment the absence of adventitious pleasures forces the mind 
back upon itself, the instinctive feeling resumes its original 
force. It seems to me always an unfavorable trait in the 
character of an immigrant from abroad, that he is disposed 
to speak unfavorably of his native country, or does not seem 
to prefer it to all others. God has wrought into the mind 
of every good man a filial feeling towards his native country. 

Note 15, pageG9. 

None of the sentiments and maxims of M. Droz. have been 
more severely censured than those of the succeeding para- 
graphs. I am as little disposed to inculcate an indolent phi- 
losophy, as any other person. These views seem peculiarly 
unfitted for tlie genius of our country, where everything re- 
spires, as it ought, energy, industry, a fixed purpose and a 
keen pursuit. That such are the requirements of our institu- 
tions is a truth too strongly forced upon us by the order of 
everything in our country, to require any other proof. I 
would be the last person to feel disposed to recommend a 
philosophy, which would tend to quench that busy and daring 



215 



spirit which is the most striking characteristic of our nation. 
No elevation or opulence among* us can dispense with a defi- 
nite pursuit. So forcibly is every citizen reminded of this, 
by all he sees about him, that without a pursuit, no one among 
us can sustain his own self-respect. He, who courts seclu- 
sion and retirement, on the principles of the author is obliged, 
even in his retirement, to keep himself engaged. He must de- 
vote himself to agriculture, manufactures, or some other ab- 
sorbing pursuit. 

It is hardly necessary to add that no American is in danger 
of subscribing to his disqualifying views of the law, or any 
other profession. A freeman ought to hold, that he can con- 
fer respectability upon whatever pursuit circumstances may 
impel him to follow. Happily, no harm would result, in our 
country, from the dislike of the author to the law. By what 
seems to me an unhappy general consent among us, the law 
is absorbing in the temptations that it offers to our young 
men. It is the prescribed avenue to all honor and^place. All 
our functionaries must have passed into the temple of power 
and fame through this portico. Hence it is, and probably long 
will be thronged by a great corps of supernumeraries. I would 
certainly be the last, notto think respectfully of the profession ; 
but still I dislike to see so many of our aspiring young men 
crowding into it, to meet inevitable disappointment. 

But critics Avill moderate their strictures upon the author, 
when they call to mind, that although there is no such class, 
as people of leisure in our country, it constitutes a great and 
powerful one in France ; perhaps greater in proportion, than 
any other country. The chief application of these paragraphs 
must be to men of that condition, of whom the better class 
make literature at once their amusement and pursuit. For 
such, these are, probably, the wisest and best precepts that 
could be given. The whole of that part of tliis chapter, which 
inculcates an inactive retirement, is altogether calculated for 
another meridian, than that of our country. I have entirely 
omitted some of the passages, as not only of erroneous gener- 
al tendency, but altogether inapplicable to any order of things 
among us. But admitting this, and a few other trifling ex- 



216 



ceptions, I have been astonished at the charges which have 
been brought against the moral tendency of the general opin- 
ions of M. Droz. 

Note 16; page 73. 

This short chapter upon health seems to me full of the sound- 
est practical v/isdom. Every one must be aware, that the wise 
pursuit of happiness must be preceded by the preserving of 
health. The wise ancients justly made the menssana in corpore 
sano, to be the condition, if not the essence of human happi- 
ness. Most treatises upon health have oppressed the subject 
by too many, and too intricate rules. It would be difficult to 
add to the author's precepts, brief as they are, so far as they 
relate to the moral and intellectual regimen necessary to 
health. I add a remark, or two, touching some physical ap- 
pli9,nces, that should be appended to the moral rules. 

So far as my reading and observation extend, there are but 
three circumstances, which have almost invariably accompa- 
nied health and longevity. The favored persons have lived 
in elevated rather than in low and marshy positions ; have been 
possessed of a tranquil and cheerful temperament, and ac- 
tive habits ; and have been early risers. 

It is related that the late King George the Third, who made 
the causes of longevity a subject of constant investigation, 
procured two persons, each considerably over a hundred years 
of age, to dance in his presence. He then requested them to 
relate to him their modes of living, that he might draw from 
them, if possible, some clue to the causes of their vigorous 
old age. The one had been a shepherd, remarkably temper- 
ate and circumspect in his diet and regimen ; the other a 
hedger, equally noted for the irregularity, exposure, and 
intemperance of his life. The monarch could draw no infer- 
ence, to guide his inquiries, from such different modes of life, 
terminating in the same result. On further inquiry, he 
learned, that they were alike distinguished by a tranquil 
easiness of temper, active habits, and early rising. 

After all the learned modern expositions of the causes of 



217 

dyspepsia, I suspect that not one in a thousand is aware how 
much temperance and moderation in the use of food conduce 
to health. There are very few among us who do not daily 
consume twice the amount of food, necessary to satisfy the 
requisitions of nature. The redundant portion must weigh 
as a morbid and unconcocted mass upon the wheels of life. 
Every form of alcohol is unquestionably a poison, slow or rap- 
id, 'in proportion to the excess in which it is used. Disguise 
it is as we may, be the pretexts of indulgence as ingenious and 
plausible, as inclination and appetite can frame, it retains its 
intrinsic tendencies under every sophistication. Wine, in 
moderation, is, doubtless, less deleterious than any of its dis- 
guises. In declining age, and in innumerable cases of de- 
bility, it may be indicated as a useful remedy ; but even here, 
only as a less evil to countervail a greater. Pure water, all 
other circumstances equal, is always a healthier beverage for 
common use. Next to temperance, a quiet conscience, a 
cheerful mind, and active habits, I place early rising, as a means 
of health and happiness. I have hardly words for the esti- 
mate which I form of that sluggard, male or female, that has 
formed the habit of wasting the early prime of day in bed. — 
Laying out of the question the positive loss of life, the magna 
pars dempia solido de die, and that too of the most inspiring 
and beautiful part of the day, when all the voices of nature 
invoke man from his bed ; leaving out of the calculation, that 
longevity has been almost invariably attended by early rising ; 
to me, late hours in bed present an index to character, and an 
omen of the ultimate hopes of the person who indulges in this 
habit. There is no mark, so clear, of a tendency to self-in- 
dulgence. It denotes an inert and feeble mind, infirm of pur- 
pose, and incapable of that elastic vigor of will which enables 
the possessor always to accomplish what his reason ordains. 
The subject of this unfortunate habit cannot but have felt 
self-reproach, and a purpose to spring from his repose with 
the freshness of the dawn. If the mere indolent luxury of 
another hour of languid indulgence is allowed to carry it over 
this better purpose, it argues a general weakness of charac- 
ter, which promises no high attainment or distinction. — 
19 



218 

These are never awarded by fortune to any trait, but vigor, 
promptness and decision. Viewing the habit of late rising, 
in many of its aspects, it would seem as if no being, that has 
any claim to rationality, could be found in the allowed habit 
of sacrificing a tenth, and that the most pleasant and spirit- 
stirring portion of life, at the expense of health, and the cur- 
tailing of the remainder, for any pleasure which this indul- 
gence could confer. 

Note 17, page 76. 

From personal experience and no inconsiderable range of 
observation, I am convinced that the author has by no means 
overrated the influence of imagination upon health and dis- 
ease. It is indeed astonishing, at this late period, when 
every physiologist and physician is ready to proclaim his own 
recorded observations upon the medicinal influence of the 
moral powers, the passions, and especially the imagination, 
that so few medical men have thought it an object to employ 
them as elements of actual application. Hitherto these un- 
known and undefined powers of life and death have been in 
the hands of empirics, jugglers, mountebanks and pretended 
dispensers of miraculous healing. It is, at the same time, 
matter of regret, that scientific physicians, instead of ques- 
tioning their undeniable cures, and pouring attempted ridicule 
upon them, have not separated the true from the false, and 
sought access to the real fountain of the efiicacy of their 
practice, the employment of confident faith, hope, and the un- 
limited agency of the all pervading power of the imagination. 
Many physicians are sufficiently wise, and endowed with 
character, to exercise circumspection in giving their opinions 
and pronouncing upon the prognostics of their patients. 
They regulate their words, countenance and deportment with 
a caution and prudence which speak volumes in regard to 
their conviction of the influence which imprudence in these 
points might have. 

In fact, it is only necessary to observe the intense and 
painful e arnestness with which the patient and the friends 



219 

watch his countenance and behaviour, to be aware what an 
influence may be thus exerted. It is only requisite to under- 
stand with what prying anxiety the sick man questions those 
around him, what the physician thinks and predicts of his 
case, to make him sensible how vigilantly he should be on 
his guard, in spending his judgment rashly in the case. All 
this negative wisdom, in the application of moral means, is 
sufficiently common. Not to possess it, in a considerable de- 
gree, would indicate a physician unacquainted with the most 
common etiquette of a sick chamber. 

But, as yet, we see the positive employment of these means 
almost wholly interdicted by custom to regular physicians. 
We contend for their exercise only within the limits of the 
most scrupulous veracity and the most severe discretion^ 
What powers would he not exert, who, snatching these moral 
means from the hands of empirics, and Avho, to thorough ac- 
quaintance with all that can be known in regard to physical 
means, should join the wise and discriminating aid of an 
imagination creating a healing Avorld of hope and confidence 
about the patient ? Such a benefactor of our species will, 
ere long, arise, who will introduce a new era into medicine. 

Who can doubt that implicit faith in the healing powers 
of prince Hohenloe may have wrought cures, even in cases 
of paralysis, without the least necessity for introducing the 
vague and misapplied term, a miracle ; or that some out of 
many persons in an asylum of paralytics would find them- 
selves able to fly when bombs fell upon the roof of their 
receptacle ? 

The influence of a vigorous will upon the physical move- 
ments of our frame has scarcely been conjectured, much less 
submitted to the scrutiny of experiment. Yet it would be 
easy, I think, to select innumerable cases where, by its 
means, men have exerted powers previously unknown to 
themselves. We see the immediate application of almost 
superhuman energy upon the access of frenzy to the patient 
and this affords conclusive proof that, upon the addition of 
the due amount of excitement, the body and mind become 



220 

capable of incredible exertions, and yet sink into infantiiie 
debility the moment that the excitement is withdrawn. Every 
one has been made aware of what mere resolution can do, in 
sustaining the frame in cases of cold, exposure, hunger and 
exhaustion. All these instances are only different forms o^ 
proof, which might be multiplied indefinitely, of the agency of 
moral powers upon physical nature. Under similar influences, 
omens and predictions, in weak and superstitious minds, be- 
come adequate causes of their own completion. Since per- 
fect knowledge alone can deliver the mind from more or less 
susceptibility of this influence, it is important that it should 
be wisely directed to bear, as far as it may, upon the imagina- 
tion, in kindling it to confidence, cheerfulness and hope., 

Note 18, page 19. 

' Why drew Marseilles's good bishop purerbreath, 
When the air sickened, and each gale was death V 

Because he was sustained by a cheerful reliance upon 
Providence, a firm determination to do his duty, and have na 
fear of consequences. The whole scope of my own observa- 
tion, beside the sick bed, perfectly coincides with these views., 
I do not say that there are not numberless exceptions. But 
of this I am confident, that the general rule is, that persons 
who attend the sick and dying, in cases of epidemic disease 
of a mortal type, v/ith a fearless and cheerful mind, escape ; 
while the timid, who are alarmed and have an implicit belief 
in the danjer of contagion, succumb. 

Koie 19, page 83. 

If there ever was an age when invalids and the suffering 
might promise themselves sympathy in the dolorous detail 
of their symptoms, which is questionable, it certainly is not 
now, during the era of labor-saving machinery, political 
economy, and the all engrossing influence of money and cor-- 
porate achievement. He who now suffers from acute pain, 
in any form, will do wisely to summon all his strength and. 



221 



philosophy to suppress any manifestation in his countenance 
and muscles, rather than task his eloquence in framing his 
tale of symptoms. 

This Avhole chapter upon health abounds in the highest 
practical wisdom, and the hints in it might easily be expanded 
to a volume. I only add, that I earnestly recommend a poem 
upon the same subject, one, as it seems to me, among the 
most classical and beautiful in our language, and which has 
become strangely and undeservedly obsolete — Dr Arm- 
strong's Art of Health. 

Note 20, page 83. 

How often have similar thoughts pressed upon my mind, as I 
have stood over the bed of the sick and dying ! Here is the pe- 
culiar empire of minds truly and nobly benevolent, where the 
head and main prop of a family is preparing to conflict with 
the last enemy : where pain and groans, terror and death, fill 
the foreground, and the dim but inevitable perspective of 
desolation, struggle and want, in contact with indifference 
and selfishness, opens in the distance before the survivors. 
Let us thank God for religion. Philosophy may inculcate 
stern endurance and Avise submission ; but knows not a fit 
and adequate remedy. The hopes and the example imparted 
by him who went about doing good, are alone sufficient for 
the relief of such cases, of which, alas ! our world is full. 

Note 21, page 86. 

No view of human life is more consoling or just than that 
presented in these paragraphs. Yet no human calculation 
will ever reach the sum of agony that has been inflicted by the 
jealousy, envy and heart-burning that have resulted from that 
most erroneous persuasion, that certain conditions and cir- 
cumstances of life bring happiness in themselves. Beauti- 
fully has the bible said, that < God has set one thing over 
against another' — has balanced the real advantages of the 
different human conditions. The result of my experience 
19* 



222 



would leave me in doubt and at a loss, in selecting the condi- 
tion which T should deem most congenial to happiness. I 
should have to balance abundance of food, on the one hand, 
against abundance of appetite, on the other ; the habit super- 
induced by the necessity of being satisfied Avith a little, with 
the habit of being disgusted with the trial of much. There 
are joys, numerous and vivid, peculiar to the rich ; and others, 
in which none but those in the humbler conditions of life caa 
participate. In the whole range of the enjoyment of the 
senses, if there be any advantage, it belongs to the poor. 
The laws of our being have surrounded the utmost extent of 
human enjoyment with adamantine walls, which one condition 
can no more overleap than another. It is wonderful to see 
this admirable adjustment, like the universal laws of nature, 
acting everywhere and upon everything. Even in the phy- 
sical world, what is granted to one country is denied to 
another ; and the wanderer who has seen strange lands and 
many cities, in different climes, only returns to announce, as 
the sum of his experience and the teaching of years, that 
light and shadow, comfort and discomfort, pleasure and pain,, 
like air and water, are diffused in nearly similar measures, 
over the whole earths 

Note 21, pag« 88. 

It needs but little acquaintance with human condition to 
perceive, in the general adjustment of advantages settled by 
Providence, that great proportions of them have been thrown 
into opposite scales, and so contrasted that the- selection of 
one class implies the rejection of the other. For example, 
smitten with the thousand temptations of wealth, you are 
determined to be rich. Be it so. Industry, frugality and the 
convergence of your faculties to this single point will hardly 
fail to render you so. But then you will not be so absurd as 
to envy another the fame of talents and acquirements which 
required absorbing devotion to pursuits incompatible with 
yours. 

You are rich, and complain of satiety and ennui. Knew 



223 



you not, when you determined to be rich, that poor people 
sing and dance about their cabin fires ? You have gained 
power and distinction and discovered the heartless selfishness 
^^ your competitors and dependents. Were you ignorant 
that friendship can only be purchased by friendship; and 
that, in selecting your all-engrossing pursuit, you have pre- 
cluded yourself from furnishing your quota of the reciprocity ? 
The choices of life are alternatives. You may select from 
this scale, or that. But, in most cases, you cannot take from 
both. How much murmuring would be arrested if this most 
obvious truth were understood and men would learn to be 
satisfied with their alternative I Choose wisely and delibe- 
rately ; and then quietly repose on your choice. Say, ' I have 
this ; another has that. I am certain that I have my choice. 
I do not know but his condition was forced upon him.' 

Note 22, page 89. 

If I have ever allowed myself the indulgence of envy, it is 
after having tasted the pleasure of rewarding merit, or reliev- 
ing distress, in thinking how continually such celestial satis- 
factions are within the reach of tlie opulent. What a calm 
is left in the mind after having wiped away tears! What 
aspirations are excited in noting the joy and gratitude conse- 
quent upon misery relieved ! How delightful to recur to the 
remembrance during the vigils of the night watches I How 
it expands the heart to reflect upon the consciousness of the 
all powerful and all good Being, measuring the circuit of the 
universe in doing good ! Unhappily, the experience of all 
time demonstrates that the possession of opulence and power 
not only has no direct tendency to inspire increased sensi- 
bility to such satisfactions, but has an opposite influence. For 
one, rendered more kind and benevolent by good fortune, how 
many become callous, selfish and proud by it! Kindly and 
wisely has Providence seen fit to spare most men this dan- 
gerous trial. 



224 



Note 23, page 92. 

This chapter of the author, among the rest, has been ob- 
noxious to severe strictures. I am sensible that the young 
require the exercise of cautious discretion in few questions 
more than in this, ' How far is it wise to disregard public 
opinion ?' To press the point too far is to incur the reputation 
of eccentricity and arrogant confidence in our ownjudgment. 
Implicitly to copy the expressions and habits of the multi- 
tude precludes all pursuit of happiness by system ; and re- 
duces the whole inquiry to the injunction, to walk with the 
rest, and add our ennui and disappointment to the mass of 
the unhappiness of all those who have gone before. If cer- 
tain modes appear to me, after the most deliberate examina- 
tion, conducive to my happiness, why should I be deterred 
from adopting them, because I am not countenanced by the 
general opinion and example of a crowd, each individual of 
which T should altogether reject as a teacher and an example ? 
If I avow that the ten thousand, in all time, have formed the 
most erroneous judgments, touching the wisdom of human 
pursuits, why should I continue blindly to copy their errors ? 
He is certainly the most fortunate man who, if an exact 
account of his sensations and thoughts could be cast into a 
Bum at his last hour, would be found to have enjoyed the 
greatest number of agreeable moments, pleasurable sensa- 
tions and happy reflections. If to court retirement, repose, 
the regulation of the desires and passions, and the cultivation 
of those affections Avhich are best nurtured in the shade, be 
the most certain route to happiness, why should I be swayed 
from choosing that path by the suggestions of ambition, ava- 
rice and the spirit of the world, which enjoin the common 
course ? 

Yet every one is, more or less, a slave to the prevalent 
fashions of thinking and acting. How much vile hypocrisy 
does this slavery which covers the face of society with avast 
mask of semblance, engender ? Contemplate the routine of 
all the professions which we make and infringe in a single 
day, in the manifest violation of our inward thought and 



225 

belief; and we must admit that the world agrees to enact a 
general lie, alike deceiving and deceived, through terror of 
being the first to revolt against the thraldom of opinion. The 
very persons, too, who cherish the profaundest secret con- 
tempt for the judgment of the multitude, are generally the 
loudest and the first in decrying any departure from the 
standard of public opinion almost as an immorality. 

I would by no means desire to see those most dear to me 
arrogantly setting at defiance received ideas and usages. 
These have, as the author justly remarks, a salutary moral 
sway in repressing the influence of the impudent and aban- 
doned. I am not insensible to the danger of following our 
independent judgment beyond the limits of a regulated dis- 
cretion. But there is no trait in the young for which I feel 
a more profound respect, than the fixed resolved to consult 
their own light, in setting the rules of their conduct and 
selecting their alternatives. A calm and reflecting inde- 
pendence, an unshaken firmness in encountering vulgar pre- 
judices, is what I admire as the evidence of strong character, 
fearless thinking and capability of self-direction. 

Note 24, page 98. 

How often must every reflecting mind have been led to 
similar views of human nature ! To form just estimates and 
entertain right sentiments of our kind, we must not contem- 
plate men under the action of the narrowness of sectarian 
hate, or through the jaundiced vision of party feeling. We 
must see them in positions like those so happily presented by 
the author, when great and sweeping calamities level men to 
the consciousness and the sympathies of a common nature, 
and a sense of common exposure to misery, and open the 
fountains of generous feeling. Who has not seen men, on 
such occasions, forget their pride, their miserable questions 
of rank and precedence, and meet with open arms and the 
mingled tears of gratitude and relief, persons, the view of 
whom under other circumstances, would have called forth 
only feelings of scornful comparison and reckless contempt ? 



226 

The incident of the hostile French and German posts is a 
singularly touching one. In what a horrid light does it place 
the character and passions of princes, generals, conquerors 
and warriors, in all time, who for their measui'eless cupidity, 
or the whim of their ambition, have used these amiable beings, 
formed with natural sympathies to aid and love each other, 
as the mechanical engines of their purposes, to meet breast 
to breast as enemies, and plunge the murderous steel into each 
others' hearts ! Hence, rivers of life blood have flowed as 
uselessly as rainfalls upon the ocean ! It is difficult to deter- 
mine whether we ought most to execrate the accursed am- 
bition of the few, or despise the weak stupidity of the many 
who have been led, unresistingly, like animals to the slaugh- 
ter, only the more firmly to rivet the chains of the survivors. 
What a view does war present, of the miserable ignorance, 
the brute stupidity of the mass of the species, and the detest- 
able passions of those called the great, in all time ! Who 
does not exult to see the era, every day approaching, when 
men will be too wise, too vigilant and careful of their righta 
to become instruments in the hands of others ; when the 
rational consciousness of their own predominant physical 
power shall be guided by wisdom, self-watchfulness and self- 
respect ? Then, instead of being tamely led out to slay each 
other, when invoked to this detestable sport of kings, they 
will show their steel to their oppressors. 

Note 24, page 99. 

I am as much impressed with the eloquence of this passage 
as with its truth. I reserve more particular views of religion 
for comments on the letter upon the subject. I wish to pre- 
sent in this place, as consonant with the spirit of this passage, 
one view of religion which has long been one of my most 
fixed and undoubting conclusions. It is, that man is a reli- 
gious being, by the organic constitution of his frame, still 
more than by any intellectual process of reasoning. I have 
no doubt, that a rightly organized and well endowed man, 
born and reared in a desert isle, without ever being brought 



227 

into contact with man or any discipline to call forth reason or 
speech, would be subject to precisely the same emotions as, 
varied and moulded by the circumstances of birth and educa- 
tion, constitute the substance of all the religions in the world ; 
in other words, that man is constituted a religious animal in 
the same way as he clearly is an animal with other instincts 
and passions. I am aware, that divines and moralists do not 
often insist upon the religious instinct, as one of the most 
conclusive and convincing arguments (to me, at least,) of the 
soul's immortality. It seems with them the favorite view to 
consider religion a science that may be taught, like geometry 
or chemistry. 

To me, this absorbing subject presents a very different 
aspect. I see man everywhere religious in some form. The 
sentiment takes the moldmg of his accidental circumstances. 
It is poetry, enthusiasm, eloquence, bravery ; but in every 
form an aspiration after the vast, illimitable, eternal, shadowy 
conceptions of an unknown hereafter, that the senses have 
not embodied. It is rational or fanciful, it is respectable or 
superstitious, it is a pure abstraction or a gorgeous appeal to 
the senses, according to one's country, training and tempera- 
ment. But man, whether he be a dweller in the far isles of the 
sea, or in the crowded mart, whether christian or savage, is 
everywhere found, in some form, invoking a God and reposing 
the hopes and affections of his worn heart in another and a 
better world; and extending his faith to an immortal life and 
an eternal sphere of action. 

Instead of searching for this universal principle with meta- 
physicians, pronouncing upon it with dogmatists, or deducing 
it from creeds, or creeds from it, I behold in it the same un- 
written revelation which we call instinct. Vague and unde- 
fined as is this law, and questioned by some as is even its 
existence, it announces to us one of the most impressive and 
beautiful homilies upon the truth and goodness of the Author 
of our being. It may be called the scripture of the lower 
orders, guiding them, with unerring certainty, to their enjoy- 
ments and their end. Beasts feel it, and graze the plain. 
Birds feel it, and soar in the air. Fishes feel it, and dart 



228 

along their liquid domain ; each feeding, moving, resting 
playing and perpetuating its kind, according to its organic 
laws. Winter comes upon the gregarious tribes of water 
fowls enjoying themselves in the Canadian lakes. They 
listen to this call from heaven, and mount the autumnal 
winds ; and without chart or compass, by a course to which 
that of circumnavigators is devious, they sail to the shores of 
the south, where a softer atmosphere and new supplies of 
food await them. It leads the young one of these animals, 
scarcely yet disengaged from the shell, to patter its bill in the 
dry sand, impatiently to search for water before it has yet 
seen it. It creates in the new born infant a purpose to search 
for its supplies in the yet untasted fountains of the maternal 
bosom. It guides all the lower orders of being through the 
whole mysterious range of their peculiar habits and modes of 
life. Under its influence, animals and men exercise powers 
which transcend the utmost efforts of our reason. Who can 
tell me why the duckling plunges into the water with the 
shell on its head ? Who can inform me how the affectionate 
house dog, blindfolded and conveyed in utter darkness in a 
carriage to a distance of fifty leagues, the moment he is eman- 
cipated, returns by a more direct route than that by which he 
came? There would be no use in presenting the most ex- 
tended details of these developments of instinct through the 
whole range of animated nature. Every one knows that 
wherever we discern them, either in the structure or habits 
of the animal, or both, they are indications of unerring guid- 
ance, the voice of eternal and unswerving truth, which, as 
soon as promulgated, is received as the parental counsel of 
the Author of nature. 

He who could interpret the language and the gestures of 
the lower orders would see in the structure and manifested 
wants of fishes, that water was provided as a home for them, 
had he seen them in the air. When he had noted the move- 
ments and heard the cries of the new born infant, he would 
be in no doubt, that the nutriment in the maternal bosom was 
stored for it somewhere. Seeing the structure, the starting 
pinions and plumage of the unfledged bird in its nest, he 



229 



could be at no loss in reasoning-, that as these indications of 
contrivance for other modes of life were lost in its present 
manner of existence, it was intended for movements, where 
pinions and plumag-e would avail it. 

As certain as these instincts and indications are the pledged 
verity of the Author of nature, that a sphere is provided for 
the exercise of these undeveloped powers, and a corresponding 
gratification for these instinctive desires, so sure as they 
point out, in a language, which can neither deceive nor be 
mistaken, the aim and end of the animal to which they belong, 
so sure, if religion be an instinctive sentiment, and the hope, 
and the persuasion of another existence result from the or- 
ganic constitution of our nature, there must be another life. 
That it is so, the usages and modes of all people that have 
yet been known, the people of the first ages, and the last, the 
people of the highest refinement, and those, who scarce- 
ly know the use of fi.re, have concurred to prove to us. Su- 
perficial travellers, indeed, have told us of newly discovered 
tribes, who had no visions of a God — a worship, or an here- 
after. Other travellers have followed them, and observed 
better, and discovered, that their predecessors based the fact 
on their own ignorance. They have been found to belong to 
the general analogy, and to look to 

'Some happier land in depth of woods embraced 3 
Some lovelier island in the watery waste.' 

It seems to me, that this universal agreement of religious 
ideas is the most unequivocal manifestation, that the senti- 
ment of religion is an instinct, that is exhibited in the whole 
range of animated nature. If so, it is the offered pledge of 
the divine veracity, that the soul is immortal ; and that as 
certain as the instinct of migrating birds is proof, that the mild- 
er skies which they seek, exist, and are prepared for them, so 
surely the undeveloped powers of the spirit, which have no 
range on the earth, have a country prepared also for them. 
Our aspirations, our longings after immortality^ every mode 
of worship, and every form of faith — are the rudiments, the 
20 



230 



germs, the starting pinions of the embryo spirit, which is to 
escape from its nest at death, and fly in the celestial atmos- 
phere, in which it was formed to move. 

To me these universal religious manifestations are proofs, 
that religion springs not, as some suppose, from tradition ; 
or, as others think, from reasoning. It is a sentiment. It is 
an inwrought feeling in our mental constitution, an unwritten, 
universal, and everlasting gospel, pointing to God and immor- 
tality. Bring the most uninstructed peasant, who has seen 
nothing of the earth, but its plains, in sight of Chimborazo. 
The thrill of awe and sublimity, that springs within him at 
the view, and lifcs his spirit above the blue summits to the 
divinity, is one of the forms, in which this sentiment acts. 
The natural mental movements, in view of the illimitable main, 
of the starry firmament, of elevated mountains, of whatever 
is vast in dimension, irresistible in power, terrible in the ex- 
ercise of anger, in short, all those emotions, which we 
call the sublime, are modified actings of the religious senti- 
ment. Justly has the author pronounced the universality of 
these ideas the highest testimony to the elevation of human 
nature. It is the most impressive and interesting attribute 
of the soul, that it is subject to these impulses. It is a stand- 
ing index, that the godlike stranger, imprisoned in clay, has, 
inwrought in its consciousness, indelible impressions of its 
future destiny. 

Note 25, page 101. 

Whoever philosophically considers the constitution of the 
human mind — how much we are the creatures of our cir- 
cumstances, how much we are blown about by impulse and 
passion, the dimness of our own mental vision upon most 
subjects, the narrow limit, which separates between 
truth and falsehood, right and wrong, and moreover, that we 
ourselves view everything through the coloring of our 
own pride and prejudice — will perceive at once, that, under 
all circumstances of error and even of crime, men are quite 
as worthy of pity, as of vindictive blame. A little, cold and 



231 



e Ifish mind invariably finds much matter for bitter censure in 
every act, that, according to its own chart, is an aberration. 
On the contrary, nothing, in my estimate, so decidedly marks 
a generous and noble, as well as an enlightened and a philoso- 
phic spirit, as the disposition to be indulgent in its construc- 
tion of the views and conduct of others, and to interpret all by 
the comment of palliation and kindness, whenever the case 
will admit of them. Great minds fail not to be conscious 
what a weak, miserable compound of vanity, impulse, igno- 
rance and selfishness is that lord of creation, that passive 
molding of circumstances, which we call man. Of course 
in calmly scanning his views and conduct, all other sensations 
than those of pity and kindness, die aAvay within him. As the 
human mind is exalted by its light, and its intrinsic elevation 
towards the divinity, in the same proportion it soars above 
the mists of its own passions and prejudices, and sees little in 
.humanity to inspire other feelings, than those of compassion 
.and benevolence. What is the view of human nature, present- 
ed to a Avise and good man ? 

' 'Tis but to know how little can be known, 
To see all others' faults, and feel our own.' 

Note 26, page 102. 

I am not certain, that the real spirit of tolerance has made 
so much progress in this age, as is commonly imagined. Who 
among us admits in practice, as well as theory, that the mind 
is passive in receiving evidence, and forming conclusions, 
which it cannot shape, except according to impressions, 
which it has much less power to exclude, or evade, than is gen- 
erally believed? Who among us acts on the conviction, that 
errors of opinion are almost invariably involuntary ? Every 
view of human nature, and the laws of the human mind ought 
to inspire us with an unlimited feeling of tolerance towards 
those who differ from us in opinion, howsoever widely. We 
cannot fail so to feel, if we reflect that, had we been in their 
situation, and under their circumstances, and they in ours, our 
views might have been reversed. Yet it is scarcely pos- 
sible to converse with any one a few moments, without start- 



232 



ing them by some opposing opinion, that jars with their ex- 
cited feelings and a certain amount of estrangement is the 
result. Who can conduct a disputed point, in politics or 
religion, with an unruffled temper ? Angry disputation 
is only another form of intolerance. If we narrowly inspect 
the actings of human nature, Ave shall discover, that the 
whole world is composed of individuals, almost every one of 
whom thinks he has a right to be offended with every other 
one, who does not adopt his opinions. 

It is very true, that the age of actual persecution, by fines, 
imprisonment and death, is gone by. But this results rather from 
practical political progress of ideas, than from a settled convic- 
tion that no one mind has a right to find, in the opinions of anoth- 
er mind, cause of ofi^ence. Whoever cannot look upon the most 
opposite faith and opinions of his neighbor, in religion, in poli- 
tics, and the ordinary concerns of life, without any feeling^ 
of temper and bitterness, in view of that diSerence, is in 
heart and spirit intolerant. In this view, who can justly 
and fully lay claim to toleration ? The whole world is divid- 
ed into millions of little parties and sects, often findings the 
bitterest germs of contention in the smallest differences. 
Scarcely one in ten thousand, of all these sects and parties, 
has real philosophic magnanimity enough to perceive, that all 
other men have as much claim for indulgence to their opin- 
ions, as he exacts for his own. 

^'ote 27. pe.ge 102. 

It would be amusing, if such important consequences did 
not flow from the error, to perceive, how much weight most 
people attach to the sect and party to which the persons, 
about whom they are forming an estimate, belong. The ex- 
ternals, the deportment, dress and manner are often strongly 
influenced by these matters ; but the mental com.plexion or 
temperament far less than is commonly supposed. We meet 
with people, every day, of the most exclusive and bigoted 
creeds, who act liberally : and again with people, who have 
much liberality and Catholicism in their mouths, and very 
little in their temper and spirit. I have met with liberal and 



233 

illiberal people, in almost equal proportions, in all the sects 
parties and denominations, with which I have been acquainted. 
Still, I do not, as from these remarks it might be inferred that 
I do, deem error, even in abstract opinions, such as those 
which appertain to religious and metaphysical subjects, as of 
no consequence. But I have not time, nor have I place, 
in a note, for explaining ray convictions on this subject. 

Note 27, page 104. 

An indiscreet and exaggerating zeal often injures the cause 
it would wish to serve. The gospel is best sustained by its own 
unborrowed glory, and is prejudiced by adventitious appen- 
dages. I have often heard ministers declare, from the pulpit, 
that the duty of forgiveness, and of loving and doing good to 
enemies was a peculiar discovery of the gospel, a precept un- 
known before. We have never considered it among the objects 
of the mission of our Lord, to reveal a new code of morals. The 
grand eternal principles of this science were originally en- 
graven on the heart. Man could not have existed in society 
without them. Whoever has read the elaborate and elo- 
quent treatises of heathen moralists, will perceive, that there 
was little left incomplete in the code ; and that these sublime 
virtues were eulogized, as beautiful and just in theory, if not 
to be expected in practice. It is the spirit, unction and ten- 
derness of gospel inculcation, that is unique and original. The 
heathen ethical writers had not failed to enjoin it upon the 
members of communities, to aid and love one another. But 
it is only necessary to glance upon the apostolic epistles, to see 
that Christians were a new and peculiar people, bound togeth- 
er by cords of affection, altogether unknown in the previous 
records of the human heart. What tenderness, what love, 
stronger than death, what sublime disinterestedness ! How 
reckless to the sordid motives of ambition and interest, which 
ruled the surrounding world! We scarcely need other evi- 
dence, that this simplicity of love, so unlike aught the world 
had seen before, was not an affection of earthly mold ; and 
that this new and strong people were not bound together by 
20* 



OP^l 



ties, wiiich had relarlon to the grossness of earthly bonds. 
To me there is something inexpressibly delightful and of 
"W'hich I am never weary, in contemplating the originality 
and simplicity of early Christian affection, nor is it one of the 
feeblest testimonies to the glory and divinity of the gospeL 

For the rest, I have much abridged the paragraphs, to which 
this note alludes, and have interpolated some expressions, not 
found in the original — because I would not allow myself to 
leave anything equivocal, touching my own views of the im- 
portance of Christian morals and example. 

It woald be useless to add to the beautiful views, presented 
by the author, of the disposition to oblige, and the necessity 
of cultivating modesty, and an equal and serene temper. One 
cannot enlarge upon these beaten topics, as he has foreseen, 
without running into common-places. These virtues are 
preeminently their own reward. Whoever chooses to in- 
dulge the opposite tempers has only to reflect, that he as- 
sumes the thankless office of becoming a self-tormentor, and 
injures no one so much as himself. Of these fierce passions, 
the heathen poets have given us an affecting emblem in the 
undying vultures, gnawing upon the ever growing entrails of 
Tityus. Kyou would form the sublimest conceptions of the 
eternal and underived satisfaction of the divinity, cultivate 
dispositions to oblige, and seize occasions to practise benefi- 
cence. If you would image more impressive ideas of the 
torment of demons than poets have dreamed, muse upon in- 
juries ; cultivate envy and revenge, and wish that you had 
the bolts of the thunderer, only that you might hurl them upon 
your foes. If you would experience the eternal gnawing of 
the vulture allow yourself in the constant indulgence of your 
temper. 

Note 23, page 109. 



assuming it, not a word need be said upon the most wcriL of 
all themes, the paramount influence of marriage, beyond all 
other relations, in imparting the coloring of brightness or 



235 

gloom to all subsequent life. The place, in •\v-hich the 
only satisfactions of life, that are worth any serious pursuit, 
are to be found, is within the domestic walls. Honor, fame, 
wealth, luxury, literary distinction, everything is extrinsic, 
and hollow, everything the mere mockery and shadow of joy, 
but the comfort of a quiet and affectionate home. Whoever 
does not share this faith with me, will hardly be enlightened 
to the true sources of enjoyment by any lucubrations of mine. 
Instead of details and declamation upon this truth, I present 
an unvarnished, unexaggerated view, an abstract, if I may so 
say, of the circumstances, under which the greater number 
of marriages are consummated in our country, and I imagine, 
in most civilized countries. It may not embrace the exact 
train of the incidents connected with every case ; but will 
serve, in the phrase of the makers of calendars, 'without ma- 
terial variation,' as an outline of the history of those court- 
ships that terminate in matrimony. What wonder, that wed- 
<led life is so often unhappy ! 

I am compelled to believe, that very few marriages take 
place in consequence of such an intimate acquaintance of the 
parties with each other's unsophisticated and interior charac- 
ter, as to justify the chances of affection and domestic happi- 
ness. The first adverse circumstance is, that both are con- 
stantly on such a trial to make a show of wit, good tem-per, and 
manners, as to render the whole scene, from commencement 
to close, a drama, in Avhich all is acting ; in Avhich there is 
no admission to the real life behind the scenes, until after 
marriage. How often does the actor or actress, Avho suc- 
cessfully personated a wit, and an angel, detect in the other 
party a simpleton, a brute, or a termagant ! The walk of life, 
in which they are found, may vary the shades, but it changes 
not the natural circumstances of a picture, which, in its 
broader features, applies alike to elevated and humble life. 

The parties, in the bloom of life, in all the excitement of 
juvenile buoyancy, moving in tlie illumined atmosphere of 
imagination, meet at the party, ball-room, assembly, church, 
or other place of concourse, for which the young dress, to 



236 



look around, and be gazed upon. They are clad in their gay- 
est, and stand on their best. No airs, or graces, that mothers, 
or friends, or society, or their Chesterfield, or their imagina- 
tions can suggest, are pretermitted. No attempted inflictions 
are spared from any relentings of mercy. Many gratuitous 
nods and smiles and remarks, and much odious affectation, in- 
spired by the love of conquest, pass well enough in the 
tinsel illusion of the scene and circumstances. Accident 
brings the couple into contact. They sing, dance, walk, con- 
verse, or, in some of these ways, are thrown together. Or, 
perhaps, some officious mediator reports, to the one, flattering 
remarks made by the other. The first impulses to the ac- 
quaintance are those of vanity, and the instinctive attraction 
of persons, so situated, tov/ards each other. A vague and 
momentary liking, which might be effaced, as easily as mists 
vanish in the sun, is the result. The lady, from the delicacy 
of her organization, and the quickness of her perceptions, is 
the first aware of the new state of mutual feeling ; and by con- 
joining a happy combination of coquetr}'', shyness, and en- 
couragement, adds fuel to the kindling spark. They converse 
apart, and the masonic pressure of hands is interchanged. 
Compliments ensue, more or less polished, and eloquent, accor- 
ding to their native readiness and artificial training. Vanity 
comes in with her legion of auxiliaries, and, in the same pro- 
portion as memory invests this intercourse with pleasant sen- 
sations and agreeable associations, conversation with other 
persons, between whom and themselves these processes have 
not commenced, becomes tasteless and irksome ; and ennui 
in all other society does its part to put imagination in action. 
They fi.nd themselves weary and sad in separation. Fancy 
runs riot and begins to weave her fairy tissue, and to build her 
oriental bov/ers. The parties are now in love, as they believe, 
and as the world pronounces. Now commence the hours of 
poetry and sentim^entality ; and the spring time of their new 
born passion. Not a moment, for discriminating observation 
of each other's character, has yet occurred. 

The freshness of the vernal inclination acquires the fervor 



237 



of settled and summer passion. The preliminaries of form 
are commenced ; and under such associations, and with such 
mutual inclinations, incompatibility, unfitness, opposition 
of friends, all obstacles that are not absolutely insur- 
mountable, disappear. What parent can resist the impas- 
sioned eloquence of a child, or contemplate for a moment the 
prospect of inflicting the agony of a disappointed and hope- 
less love ! Have they measured each other's understanding 
and good sense ? No : this requires a discrimination, for which 
in the fever, the delirium of tlie senses, they have no capa- 
city. KnoAv they aught of each other's worth and good temper ? 
No. Lovers find nothing to jar their temper, or try their dis- 
position. Surrounded by a halo of imagination, everything 
about them is invested with its brilliancy. The silliest remark 
of the inamorata sounds in the ears of the lover, like the re- 
sponse of an oracle ; and he is astonished and enraged that all 
others do not see, and hear with him. Everything that is said 
becomes wisdom, and everything done noble and graceful. 
Who has not heard all these ascriptions, all these extrava- 
gant eulogies, applied to a fair female, uttering nothing, and 
incapable of uttering anything, but voluble and vapid non- 
sense ; or worse, ebullitions of envy, detraction and bad 
feeling ! Meanwhile, the parties, enveloped in illusion, would 
not see real character, if they could ; and could not, if they 
would. Is this extravagant, or exaggerated ? Let the well 
known fact, that sensible men oftener marry fools, and gifted 
women coxcombs, than otherwise, be received as evi- 
dence, that this great transaction is generally commenced, 
and terminated under a spell, in which the actors see nothing, 
as it really is, and as it appears to disinterested spectators. 
After having united many hundred pairs myself, and seen all 
aspects of society, such seem to me the most common cir- 
cumstances appended to the beginning, progress and issue of 
courtship, in its common forms. 

When ambitious views, the lust of wealth, and purposes of 
aggrandizement, are the prompting incitements, the order of 
pircumstances indeed may be essentially varied, without much 



238 



altering the result. The excitement of the senses and the 
illusions of the imagination give place to these more sordid 
motives. They are, however, equally absorbing with the 
former. The faculties, having converged to the point of 
cautious and keen speculation, allow no greater scope, and 
furnish no happier facilities, for noting the development of 
understanding, character and temper, than in the other 
predicament. The appetite for money, and the burning of 
ambition may as effectually blind the aspirant to the silliness 
and bad temper of her who is seen through the flattering 
medium of his plans and his hopes, as could his vanity and 
his youthful inclinations. How can a person be expected to 
compare, and discriminate traits, and the almost impercepti- 
ble lights and shades of character, whose whole mind is in- 
tensely concentrated on the chances of his speculation, the 
fear of rivals, the danger of mishap, and the means of has- 
tening^ the issue ? Who, under such circumstances, inquires 
about the elements of happiness or misery, the good sense, 
the regulated temper, the discretion, health, temperament, 
and habits, that appertain to the means, by which a fortune 
and a name are to be obtained ? These are passed by, as 
subordinate considerations. Suppose inquiries touching these 
points to glance through the mind. Suppose the speculator to 
have lucid glimpses, and some startling premonitions of the 
importance of settled and discriminating views, in relation 
to these matters ; contemplated through golden associations 
and in the glare of ambitious hopes, they will be hardly 
likely to undergo a very severe or sifting scrutiny. 

The marriage, whether of love, of ambition, of convenience 
or mere animal impulse, takes place. The music and dancing 
are no more, and the brilliancy of the bridal torch is extinct, 
and with those physical parapharnalia^ one mental illusion af- 
ter another begins to melt into thm air. The discriminating 
faculties, judgment and the critical vision, now become mor- 
bidly sensitive and severe, since satiety and the extinction of 
fancy and the imagination have left these capacities to ui\- 
checked action, beholding the object of their scrutiny coa^ 



239 

tinually, and close at hand. The medium becomes as un- 
naturally dark, as it was unnaturally light before. A thousand 
circumstances, never dreamed of in the philosophy of love 
and courtship, crowd upon this disposition to cynical and 
bilious criticism. Manifestations of temper and character^ 
that once indicated to the lover, amiability and intelli- 
gence; become, to the moody husband or the discontented 
wife, marks of a weak understanding and a bad heart ; and 
in proportion, as they nourish despondency and disappoint- 
ment, they destroy the capability of indulgence and forbear- 
ance, and resist efforts to soothe, and correct, and con- 
ciliate. 

In proportion as they become dissatisfied with each other, 
by a mental progress, exactly the reverse of that which 
brought them together, home is enveloped Avith associations of 
gloom. The imagination finds sunshine in every other place ; 
and every other person is sensible and attractive, but the one 
they have sworn to love and honor until death. 

There are those who Avill see in these revolting represen- 
tations, a coloring of misanthropy ; and pronounce this state- 
ment of the case harsh beyond nature. I would it were so ; 
for, unless I deceive myself, I love my kind ; and my only 
object is, to impress upon the young the importance of in- 
quiring, when contemplating this vital and all important trans- 
action, whether they see things in the clear light of truth, and 
as they will certainly appear after the delirium of love has 
passed away ; or under the nameless and numberless illusions 
of that fever of the senses, of vanity, and instinct, too often 
miscalled by the name of love. I much mistake, if the greater 
portion of the domestic infelicity, which is loudly charged 
upon the wedded state in the abstract, is not owing to this 
fascination, this incapacity to examine the only elements, on 
which the happiness of a family must depend. All I would 
say, is, before entering on this union, remember, that it is 
easier to repent before, than after the evil is without a 
remedy. Pause and scrutinize ; and let not the first glimpse 
of real light open your eyes to your true condition, when it is 
irretrievable. 



240 

I am as well aware, as the author can be, that there are 
many more happy marriages, than vulgar opinion allows, and 
that even in those, which are not reputed happy, in which the 
parties themselves have had their criminating and complain- 
ing eclair cissemens, there is often much more affection, than 
has been allowed to exist. Such is generally found to be 
the case, in the numberless attempted separations, which 
prove abortive, when the final alternative is to be adopted. 1 
know, too, that the history of the manifestation of conjugal 
affection is one of the most affecting and honorable to human 
nature, that has ever been exhibited. No union of tender- 
ness and fortitude has ever been displayed in the annals of 
human nature, that can be compared with the maternal love and 
conjugal affection of a devoted wife. Of this, if I had space, 
and my scope were different, I could cite numerous, and 
most impressive examples. 

Note 28, page 110. 

I beg leave to enter my utter dissent to this doctrine. It 
seems from a note appended to this chapter of the author, that 
dislike to female authorship has been carried to the most 
ridiculous lengths in Franco. This is the more astonishing, 
as no country has produced so many admirable female writers, 
many of them peculiarly noted for possessing the charm of 
simplicity, and freedom from pedantry and affectation. A 
woman, not less than a man, is more amiable, interesting and 
capable of sustaining any relation with honor and dignity, in 
proportion as she is more instructed and enlightened. It is 
to female pedants only, that the ridiculous question of the 
French academy, whether a reputable woman could write 
a book, ought to apply. If a woman really deserves a 
crov/n of laurels, it sits more gracefully on her bro^v, than 
any chaplet of roses that poet ever dreamed of. But let us 
have real, unpresuming knowledge, without pedantry or 
affectation, either of v/hich is always odious in man or 
woman, but certainly, as it seems to me, most so in woman. 



241 



Note 30, page 115. 

Nothing", however, is more common, than this contempti- 
Dle ambition of wives to govern their husbands. It is said 
that there are coteries of wives, who impart the rules in 
masonic conclave. Be it so. Whoever exults in having 
usurped this empire, glories in her shame. If there be any 
axiom universally applying to this partnership, it is, that 
the interest and reputation of the concern must be iden- 
tical. However much a wife may humble her husband, in 
general estimation, by presenting him in the light of a weak 
and docile subject, with all sensible persons, she humbles her- 
self still more. If the slave is contemptible, the tyrant is 
still more so. For the rest, this chapter contains more truth 
and impressive eloquence upon this all important theme, than 
I have elsewhere met in so small a compass. 

Note 31, page 117. 

I present you with the following development of these new 
emotions, which, I hope, you will not find amiss. ' William 
and Yensi were as happy in this vale, as man can hope to be 
here beloAv. They would have requested nothing more of 
heaven, than thousands of years of this half dreaming, yet 
satisfying existence. A daughter was born to them, a desert 
flower of exquisite beauty even from its birth. New and 
unmoved fountains of slumbering and mysterious affections 
were awakened in the deepest sanctuary of their hearts. In 
the clear waters of the brook, which chafed over pebbles, 
turfed with'wild sage and numberless desert flowers, under the 
overhanging pines, in the tops of which the southern breeze 
played the grand cathedral service of the mountain solitudes, 
William performed, as priest, father and Christian,the touching 
ceremony of baptizing his babe. Adding the name Jessy to that 
of the mother, it was called Jessy Yensi. The sacred rite 
was performed on the sabbath, as the sun was sinking in 
cloud-curtained majesty behind the western mountains. The 
21 



242 



domestics, Ellswatta and Josepha, looked on with awe. Wil- 
liam read the Scriptures, prayed, and sang a hymn ; baptized 
his babe, and handed the nursling of the desert to Yensi. As 
she received the beloved infant in her arms, after it had been 
consecrated, as an inmate in the family of the Redeemer, 
while tears of tenderness and piety filled her eyes and fell 
from her cheeks, she declared, that she would no longer in- 
voke the universal Tien, that the God of William and her 
babe should be her God, and that they would both call on the 
same name, when they prayed together for the dear babe even 
unto death.' — SJioshonee Valley, vol. i. p. 52, 53. 

Of the emotions excited by all the incidents between the 
cradle and the grave, none can be compared for depth and 
tenderness to those, called forth by the birth and baptism of 
the first child of an affectionate and happy husband and wife. 
Those, for whom this work is more peculiarly intended, will 
be aware, to what incident in our common stock of remem- 
brances the above extract refers. Delightful sentiments, and 
yet deeply tinged with sadness ! What a mystery is this 
conjoined miniature image of the parents, the babe itself! 
What a mystery the world with its mingled lights and shadoAvs, 
upon which the feeble stranger is entering I What a mystery 
the unknown bourne to which it is bound ! What a myste- 
ry the God, to whom it is consecrated ! Callous and cold 
must be the heart of parents, that this mutual pledge of love 
and duty will not unite in one unchangeable sentiment of love 
and identity of interest, until death. 

Note 33, page 122. 

My views touching the modes, in which the best results 
of education are to be obtained, whether just or erroneous, 
have at least the advantage of being entirely practical. I am 
sufficiently convinced, that there must be an adequate and 
happy organization and mental development, without which 
no education, however wise and assiduous, will ever effect 
anything more, than mediocrity of character and acquirement. 
In the present state of public opinion, as great mistakes are 



243 



made by expecting too much from the training- of schools, as 
were formerly committed by attempting too little. The opu- 
lent, and people in the higher walks especially, are tempted 
by their condition to believe, that wealth and distinction can 
purchase, and even command mind, and that cultivation of it, by 
which more enlarged and distinguished minds differ from the 
common measure of intellect; a mistake, than which no other 
is more universally, and palpably taught by every day's expe- 
rience. The Author of our being reserves, and will never 
impart his own high prerogative, to bestow mind ; and he as of- 
ten dispenses the noblest and richest endowment of it in the 
lower, as in the upper walks of life ; though, as we have seen, 
he has indicated, in the order of nature, a process of unlimit- 
ed improvement of organization and endowment. 

But the substratum of a practical and well endowed mind, 
to begin with, being granted, I beg leave to add my convic- 
tion to that of M. Droz, a conviction, which, as T think, will 
resume its authority aud influence, when most of the present 
tedious and endless systems and projects of education Avill 
have passed into their merited oblivion. It is, that strong, 
latent and distmguished character and acquirement receive 
in domestic education, that predominant and fashioning direc- 
tion, which they retain through life. The peculiar impress 
of a parent, a family-friend, a single tutor, is often as distinctly 
marked upon the whole after life of the scholar, that becomes 
truly distinguished, as though he had been wax in the hands 
of a moulder. The numerous tutors of opulent families, and of 
public institutions, seldom impart the same advantage. Their 
different views and modes of discipline countervail, and neu- 
tralize each other. The Greeks and the great Romans taught 
at home, the master being a member and an honored one of 
the family. The master and the pupil walked, conversed, 
and pursued their amusements together ; and the sweet asso- 
ciations of home and the shade and freedom from restraint 
were conjoined with the lessons. When the good Plutarch 
paints to us, with his inimitable naivete, one of his favorite 
characters, he indicates as his first felicity, that it was his lot 



244 



to have the training of an Aristotle, or some similar worthy. 
Consult the English Plutarch for the same fact. Could all the 
conamencing circumstances of most of the great men, who 
have lived, be exactly traced, we should find the same truth 
disclosed. That the development of strong inclination for 
books, studies and literature depends almost entirely on do- 
mestic habits and pursuits, the family, in which owr common 
remembrances centre, is a striking example. During the 
years, in which the minds of this family received their un- 
changeable impress, the members were almost as vagrant in 
their modes, as the Tartars. All their education, except do- 
mestic, was exceedingly imperfect and desultory. Books were 
often wanting ; adequate teachers always. But the love of 
the parents for books and reading was a simple, natural, un- 
affected and intense impulse. They loved the thing for its 
own sake, and independent of all its results. The first in- 
struments of pleasure, and things of estimated value, that 
greeted the infant eyes of the children, were books ; not 
furniture, dress, and the imposing ostentation of a modern 
parlor. Pleasant conversations, disputes, between laughter 
and seriousness, about these books, were the first conversa- 
tions that greeted their listening ears. These conversations 
were perceived to be of deep and heart-felt interest, and as 
little mixed v/ith pedantry and formality, as the manifestations 
of instinct. The children saw, that to those, they most loved, 
admired, and were disposed to imitate, books were the grand 
sources of interest, converse and enjoyment. They as nat- 
urally imbibed similar tastes, as, to use a coarse illustration, 
the children of savages learn to love hunting. The first thing 
for which they contended, and with which they wished to play, 
was a book, or a picture. Their first lispings were trials of 
skill, touching the comparative progress, which they had made 
in their knowledge of the contents of these books, and the 
application of it to present use. These trials they saw to he 
the chief points of interest and amusement for their parents. 
Thus, habits of reading and application greiv with thdr growth 
and strengthened ivith their strength; and many a criticism, if 



S45 



not erudite and profound, at least eliciting hearty praise and 
laughter, passed away unrecorded in their domestic privacy^ 
Their neighbors admired, and, I fear, envied, and calumniated ; 
but could not but take astonished note of such results in a 
family without wealth, without the common appliances, which 
themselves could so much better afford, and which they had 
been accustomed to consider the only price, at which intellec- 
tual improvement could be purchased. It was placed beyond 
question, or denial, that the members of that family had right 
views, quiet and unawed self-respect, and could converse ra- 
tionally, upon every other topic, as well as books ; that tact 
and discrimination pervaded their manifestations of thought 
and pursuit; and that they possessed an inexhaustible source 
of amusement, and satisfaction independent of wealth, fashion, 
society, distinction, or any external resource whatever — the 
habit of internal reflection, comparison and pleasant converse 
with themselves. 

Parents, when you have imparted to your children habits 
and tastes, like these, you have bequeathed them an intellec- 
tual fortune, which few changes can take away ; and which 
is as strictly independent, as anything earthly can be. You 
have unlocked to their gratuitous use perennial fountains of 
innocent and improving enjoyment. You have secured them 
forever against the heart- wearing gloom of ennui, insufficiency 
to themselves, and slavish dependence upon others for amuse- 
ment. Spend as lavishly as you may, in multiplying fashion- 
able instructors, and blazon, as much as you will, the advan- 
tages of your children; if they do not perceive, while the 
rudiments of their taste and habits are forming, that you 
consider literature, science and the improvement of intellect 
a matter of paramount interest and importance, you will never 
cause their stream to flow higher, than your fountain. An 
occasional parlor lecture, or a high wrought eulogy, will not 
convince them, or avail to your purpose. They must see this 
preference, as all others, which they will be inclined to copy, 
manifested in your whole deportment and conversation. 

But, while I am convinced, that parents will find efforts to 
21* 



246 



train their children to be highly intellectual, rowing against 
the current, unless they evince, themselves, by their habitual 
examples, that they consider it a higher attainment, to possess 
literature and conversational powers, than fashion, or wealth 
or the common objects of pursuit, in other words, that all 
efficient education must be essentially domestic, I would 
not be understood to undervalue public schools and colleges. 
I am aware, that in these places are best imparted the know- 
ledge and adroitness that fit them for the keen scramble of am- 
bitious competition. But in regard to those boys who leave 
their competitions behind the classes of the university, I 
think on examination, we shall find, that the germ and the 
stamina of this progress were early communicated by instruc- 
tion and example at home. At table, around the evening fire, 
in the Sabbath walk, in the common family intercourse, in 
the intervals of tlie toil of your profession, whatever it be, 
the taste and the permanent inclination for literature and in- 
tellectual cultivation are imparted. This can never be, if be- 
hind all your eulogy of these things, you discover, that 
your ruling passion is money, or the sordid objects of com- 
mon puisuit. 

Note 34, page 124. 

It is a common and, I much fear, a well founded complaint^ 
that some latent mischief in our system of education, politi- 
cal institutions, the ordering of our establishments, or 
in all these together, has generated, as a prevalent moral 
evil, filial unkindness and ingratitude. Scramble, competition 
and rivalry are the first, last, and universally witnessed order 
of things in our country. Nothing becomes a topic of conver- 
sation that is of absorbing interest, but acquisition and dis- 
tinction. The manifestations of an intellect, sharpened for 
the pursuit of these things, is the subject of most earnest 
eulogy. Children, by our usages, are early cast upon their 
own resources, and taught to shift for themselves. The con- 
sequence seems to be, that the parental and filial ties are 
severed, as soon as the children are able to take care of them- 



247 

selves, almost as recklessly, in regard to subsequent duty, piety 
or affection, as those of the lower animals. When we see a 
spectacle so revolting-, and unhappily so common, of sons who, 
as soon as they have realized the portion of goods that falleth 
to them, or of daughters, as soon as they have secured lovers 
or husbands, forgetting the authors of their days, it becomes 
us to search deeply for the defect in our discipline, or insti- 
tutions, that originates the evil. The callous hearts of such 
children may no longer be appalled by the terrible execution 
of the Jewish law against such monsters. They may neither 
feel, nor care, how sharpe?' than aserpenVs tooth, may be this 
want of filial piety to their parents. But, by a righteous re- 
action of the divine justice, more terribly vindictive than the 
threatened judgment of the Jewish law, thankless children 
bear in their hearts the certain guaranty of their own self- 
inflicted punishment. They part forever with the purest and 
noblest sentiments of the human heart ; and they procure 
for themselves the sad certainty of being cast off in their 
turn, by their children, in the helpless period of their old age. 

Note 35, page 124. 

The history of literature proves, that none of the more un- 
worthy sentiments of human nature have been so adverse to 
friendship, as the vanity of literary rivals. From many 
noble examples of a contrary kind, which we might cite, I 
select the intercourse between Racine and Boileau. When 
Racine was persuaded, that his malady would end in death, 
he charged his eldest son to write to M. de Cavoye, to ask 
him to solicit the payment of what was due of his pension, 
that his family might not be left without ready money. He 
wrote the letter and read it to his father. ' Why did you not,' 
said he, ' request the payment of the pension of Boileau at 
the same time ? Write again, and let him know, that I was 
his friend in death.' This friend came to receive his last 
adieu. Racine rose in bed, as far as his weakness would 
allow. As he embraced his friend, he said 'I regard it a 
happiness to die in your presence.' 



S48 



Note 36, page 125. 

The celebrated Voiture, one of the beaux espiits of the 
age of Louis XIIL had lost all his money, and had an imme- 
diate call for 200 pistoles. He wrote to the Abbe Costar, his 
faithful friend. This admirable letter presents us with a trait 
of thac confidence and frankness, which sincere friendship 
inspires. It was this. 

' I yesterday lost all my money, and 200 pistoles more, which 
I have promised to pay today. If you have that sum, do not, 
fail to send it. If not, borrow it. Obtain it, as you may, 
you must lend it me. Be careful, to allow no one to antici- 
pate you, in giving me this pleasure. I should be concerned 
lest it might affect my love for you. I know you so well, 
that I am aware, you would find it difficult to console your- 
self. To avoid this misfortune, rather sell what will raise it. 
You see how imperious my love for you is. I take a plea- 
sure in conducting in this manner towards you. I feel, that 
I should have a still greater, if you would be as frank with 
me. But you have not my courage in this point. Judge, if I 
am not perfectly assured in regard to you, since I will give my 
promise to him, who shall bring the money.' The Abbe Costar 
replied — ' I feel extreme joy, to be in condition to render you 
the trifling service, you ask of me. I had never thought, that 
one could purchase so much pleasure for 200 pistoles. Having 
experienced it, I give you my word, that, for the rest of my 
life, I will retain a little capital, always ready for your occa- 
sions. Order confidently at your pleasure. You cannot take 
half the satisfaction in commanding, that I shall in obeying. 
But submissive as you may find me in other respects, I shall 
be revolted, if you wish to compel me to take a promise 
from you.' 

Note 37, page 128. 

Although I do not intend to cite in this place the story of 
Damon and Pythias, nor to harp upon discussions of a theme, 



249 



upon which there has been more odious prosing, and more 
semblance of sentiment than all others, yet a subject, in- 
trinsically of the tirst importance, and founded in nature, can 
never cease to have claims upon attention, in consequence of 
having been hackneyed to thread-bare triteness. There is 
such an affection, as friendship. It belongs to man, and is the 
highest honor of his nature, less gross and terrene, than the 
short epilepsy, the transient and fitful fever of the senses, 
commonly dignified with the name of love, and warmer, more 
exhilarating, and elevated, than mere esteem, and common 
liking; it excites, without inflaming; it thrills, without 
jealousy, corroding fear, or morbid solicitude. It is that sen- 
timent, which a poet would naturally assign to intellectual 
beings of a higher order, who were never invested with the 
corporeal elements of mortality. 

I wish those, most dear to me, implicitly to believe in friend« 
ship. I would a thousand times prefer, that they should err 
on the side of credulity, than of suspicion and distrust. I de- 
precate, above all things, that they should give up human 
nature. I consider real misanthropy the last misfortune. T 
would, rather, my children should meet with treachery and 
inconstancy every day of their lives, than resign themselves 
to the morbid and heartless persuasion, weakly considered an 
attribute of wisdom and greatness, that men are altogether 
selfish, and unworthy of confidence. It is a persuasion, that 
not only forever invests the universe in an Egyptian gloom, 
' that may he felt,^ but, by an energetic bearing on all the 
faculties and sources of feeling, causes the heart, that en- 
tertains such views to become what it believes to be the 
character of the species. 

No scruples of false decorum shall withhold me from say- 
ing, that, amidst all the selfishness, which optics of the most 
charitable vision could not but discover on every side, I have 
seen friendship, pure, holy, disinterested, like that of the 
angels ; nay, more — have been myself the subject of it. 
My heart swells, and will to its latest pulsation, with the 
remembered proofs. True, the instances, that have fallen 



250 



within the compass of my experience, are very few. But 
they are sufficient to settle my conviction, that the senti- 
ment, which has inspired the enthusiasm of eloquence, paint- 
ing and song, in all time, is not the illusion of a weak and 
misguided imagination. Selfish as man is, we often see in- 
stances of the most generous and devoted friendship, even 
in this silver age, the age of revenue and political economy. 

With my author I believe, that where the sentiment ex- 
ists between a man and a woman, admitting each to possess 
the estimable endowments peculiar to each sex, and so ex- 
ists, as not to be modified by any of those countless associa- 
tions of another order of sentiment, that almost impercepti- 
bly invest relations between the two sexes, it is more vivid, 
permanent and disinterested, more capable of making sacrifi- 
ces, and more tender and delightful than it can be between per- 
sons of the same sex. Of this class are the most noble, touch- 
ing and sublime examples of a constancy under every form 
of proof, that the history of the human heart records. 

While every one is sensible, that there must exist 
between characters, that are susceptible of all the fidel- 
ity and beauty of this sentiment, a certain adaptation of 
circumstances, and conformity of disposition, mind, develop- 
ment and temperament, I believe with St Pierre, that it is 
desirable, that there should be a certain contrast as well as 
much fitness. Constant assentation, the same opinions, tastes, 
tempers and views have been found by experience, not to gen- 
erate the most permament, and pleasant unions of the sort. 
The moral, as well as the physical appetite, would grow 
weary of perpetual uniformity and unvarying similarity, and 
requires the spice, afforded by the mixture of various ingre- 
dients of affectionate contrariety. Both the love and friend- 
ship, most likely to endure, spring up between the placid and 
piquant, the tranquil and energetic, the monotonously sweet 
tempered and the sensitive, whose irritability is held in 
check by good sense, kindness and self-control ;— between 
the temperament, connected with blue eyes and fair hair, 
and that of the keen, deep black eye, and raven locks. Sol- 



251 



diers,' says St Pierre, ' on long and distant expeditions, 
should be associated, with ministers, lawyers with naturalists, 
and in general, the strongest contrasts of profession' — all 
nature's discord thus making all nature^s peace. But I am 
perfectly aware, that there will be great danger of making 
fatal mistakes, in acting on this principle. I am confident, 
that is true in the abstract ; but let sentimentalists beware of 
trenching too confidently on ground, where the limits between 
safety and ruin are so narrow, and difficult to discern. Doves 
of a different feather may pair happily, but not doves and vul- 
tures. There must be a certain compatibility not only of char- 
acter, but of age, condition and circumstances, as we are 
broadly instructed in the fable of the frog thinking to wed 
with the ox. 

Any discussion of the details, touching the requisite circum- 
stances of compatibility to form friendships with any chance of 
their being pleasant and permanent, as well as the obligations 
and duties involved by it, would require a volume, and would 
carry me utterly beyond my present purpose. Books are ample, 
if not interesting and just, in the information which they im- 
part upon this subject. With my views of its obligations and 
duties in few words, I shall dismiss it. 

In a pecuniary point of view the claims of friendship are 
only limited by the sterner demands of justice. The 
common adage, which calls upon us to be just, before we al- 
low ourselves to be generous, is worthy to be written 
in letters of gold ; though it has been a thousand times wrest- 
ed by selfish and cold hearts, into a pretext for their avarice. 
Whoever should think of lavishing his money upon a friend, 
in order to absolve himself from the more difficult calls of 
justice, would show a mind, too weak and incapable of dis- 
crimination, to honor that friend by his bounty. But, grant 
that the friends have delicacy, consideration and gentlemanly 
tact, and they may possess a common purse, without danger 
to the duties of either. 

The fame and character of the one are strictly the prop- 
erty of the other. Let no one, who has the least particle of 



252 



the base alloy of envy in his feelings towards him,-\vhom he calls 
his friend, who is willing to hear, and countenance abate- 
ments of his qualities, talents, or virtues, dare to assume that 
almost sacred name. He is equally unworthy of it, if he 
stand by in neutrality when calumny is busily passing against 
him ; and still more, if by smiles he gives his countenance, 
and half his consent to the story of detraction and abate- 
ment. It is a forfeiture of the right to the name, though it 
may be a less worthy one, to make the person, called 
friend, the subject of jest and ridicule. In regard to all these 
points, the duties are clear, distinct, palpable and not to be 
compromised. Every honorable mind feels, in witnessing any 
infraction of the laws of equity, or strict justice, a sentiment of 
recoil and disgust, difficult perhaps to define, but one which 
instantly designates the person guilty of it, as unworthy of 
the name of friend. Honest, frank and disinterested ad- 
vice, especially in relation to concerns of great interest to 
the party, is a paramount obligation, whether the advised 
will bear, or forbear. This prerogative may, indeed, be 
claimed by unfeeling and rude bluntness. But, by a discrimi- 
nating mind, the suggestions of a counterfeit, will never be 
mistaken for those of genuine friendship. 

The time, the courtesy and the amount of intercourse, due 
from one friend to another, can never be brought under sub- 
jection to rules. Moral, like physical attraction, acting uncon- 
sciously, will regulate this portion of duty, with the unvary- 
ing certainty of the laws of nature. If persons, claiming to 
sustain this relation to each other, do not wish to be as much 
together, as duty and propriety will admit ; if they allow this 
matter to be settled by the rigid tithing of etiquette, they are 
anything rather than real friends. 

I have been struck by an incident in the life of a religious 
woman, I think it was Mrs Graham. There was a sacramental 
pledge between her and a friend, that, whichever of them 
should be first called from life, the other should visit her in the 
sickness, which she should consider her last, and not leave 
her, until she had received her last sigh. Sublime test of affec- 



253 



tion! what a tender, sacred office, after a life of friendship, 
thus, by a sacramental contract, to close the eyes of the friend 
beloved in life, and separated only by death ! There can be no 
doubt that the feelings, called thus into action, are peculiarly 
fitted to mitigate the last sorrows; and in the simple grandeur 
of such a sentiment, so manifested, the departing friend will see 
a proof, that such affections are, in there own nature, immor- 
tal ; and that such ties shall be renewed in the eternal regions 
of the living. 

When friends are separated wide from each other by dis- 
tance, duty, and the stern calls of our pursuits, I admire the 
custom of baptizing, if I may so say, our remembrances, by 
giving the names of our dear and distant friends to the hills^ 
valleys, streams, trees or pleasant views in our walks ; or the 
objects most familiar and pleasant to our view. The stern 
silence of nature may thus be compelled to find a tongue, 
and discourse with us of those we love. 

In a word, the name, I am sensible, is too often a morbid 
mockery of cold and affected sentimentalism, both weak and 
disgusting, the cant term for the intercourse between the 
enlarged prisoners of boarding schools. But the sentiment 
exists, pure, simple delightful. Neither fawning, nor cant, nor 
flattery, nor any mixture of earth's mould makes any part of it. 
Honorable, dignified, unshaken, it feels its obligations, and 
discharges them. The reputation, character and whole in- 
terest of the friend is its object ; and his highest happiness 
its prayer. In holy segregation from the hollow intercourse, 
false phrases and deceitful compliments of fashion, and 
what is called the world, it is faithful and consistent, under 
all proofs and trials, until death ; and when the eyes of the 
departed are closed, his memory is enshrined in the remem- 
brance of the survivor. Thank God ! I have seen, I have 
felt, that there are such friendships : and if there is anything 
honorable, dignified and attractive in aught, that earth pre- 
sents, it is the sight of two friends, whose attachment dates 
from their first remembered sentiment ; and has survived dif- 
ference of opinion and interest, the changes of distance, 
22 



254 



time and disease, and those weaning influences, which, while 
they crumble the most durable monuments, convert most hearts 
to stone. 

Note 38, page 129. 

I have long been in the habit of measuring the character, 
mental power and prospects of the young, who are brought 
by circumstances under my observation, by the power which 
they evince, to resist the suggestion of the senses. In the 
same proportion, as I see them capable of rising above the 
thraldom of their appetites, capable of that energy of will, 
that gives the intellectual control over the animal nature, I 
graduate"them higher in the scale of moral power and prospect. 
But if, in their course, they manifest the clear preponderance 
of the animal ; if sloth, sensuality, and the inclinations, which 
have no higher origin than the senses, sway them beyond the 
influence of advice and moral suasion, be they ever so beauti- 
ful, endowed, rich, distinguished, be their place in general 
estimation ever so high, I put them down, as belonging to 
the animal, and not the intellectual orders. They can never 
reach higher worth and success, than that, which is the blind 
award of accident. 

Note 39, page 131. 

It seems to me, that writers on taste have not seen all the 
importance of uniting physical with moral ideas, to give them 
any deep and permanent interest. This subject might be en- 
larged to any extent, by carrying out the details, suggested 
by the striking, just, but necessarily very brief views of 
the author. We have here a clue, by which we may explore 
a whole universe of the highest and purest pleasures which 
can touch the heart, and which to the greater portion of the 
species have no existence. 

There are travellers more learned, and equally capable of 
noting facts with M. de Chateaubriand. They have trav- 



255 



ersedthe same countries, seen the same objects, and collect- 
ed an immense mass of facts, which they have published, on 
their return, to be read by none, but kindred spirits, as dull 
as themselves. In his record of his travels in the same coun- 
tries, we are beguiled onward, under the spell of a sustained 
charm. The imagination is constantly in action ; the heart 
swells ; images of grandeur and beauty, remembrances of 
pathos and power are evoked from every side, and the shad- 
ows of the past throng round u?'. Why is it so? The former 
see brute nature, in its lifeless and motionless materiality, 
divorced from mind and memory. The latter not only sees 
that universe with a radiant eye, but holds converse with a 
superincumbent universe, as much more vast, beautiful, touch- 
ing, diversified, than the other, as mind is superior to matter. 
It is this creation of thoughts, remembrances, poetry, and af- 
fecting images, in his mind, intimately connected with the 
other, and overshadowing it, like an illumined stratum over a 
Tegion covered with palpable mist, by virtue of which he 
makes nature eloquent. This is the charm spread over all 
the beautiful passages that abound in his writings ; a peculiar 
aptitude to associate nature, in every position and form, with 
the universe of thought within him. Such is the endowment 
of all poets, orators, and painters, that have produced efforts 
worthy of immortality. Common writers see nature dead, si- 
lent, sterile — mere brute and voiceless matter. Endowed 
minds kindle it into speech, beauty and grandeur ; interpret- 
ing it by the internal Avorld in their own minds. 

Noie 3.9., page 134. 

These illustrations of the importance of uniting moral with 
physical ideas, in regard to vision, landscape, painting and 
music, are as true, as they are eloquent and striking. Who 
has not had the vivid remembrance of home recalled in a dis- 
tant land, by a tree, a feature in the landscape, a blue hill 
in the distance ! How readily the shadowy images of memory 
are evoked ! Every one is aquainted with the touching circum- 



256 



stance in the character of the Swiss soldiers serving in foreign 
countries. Great numbers of them used to serve, as stipen- 
daries, in the French armies. It was forbidden to play, 
in their presence, the air Ranz des vaclies. Home, sickness 
and desertion scarcely failed to ensue from hearing it. The 
wild and plaintive air reminded them of ' Sweet home,' their 
mountains, their simple pleasures, and the range and lowing 
of their kine. The beautiful Scotch airs derive their charm 
from their association v/ith mountain scenery, and the peculiar 
history and manners of a highly sensitive, intelligent and 
national people. The same may be said of the unrivalled 
Erin go Bragh, in relation to the Irish ; in a word of the na- 
tional music of every people. Associate any idea with sen- 
timent and the heart, and it becomes touching, and sublime^ 
and capable of stirring the deepest fountains of feelings 
according to the remembrance with which it is allied. 

Note 40, page 135. 

I have heard persons, endowed with keen feelings, re- 
piningly contrast the miseries which they endured from 
an excess of irritable and unregulated sensibility, with the 
apparently joyous apathy of fat and fortunate burghers, who 
seem to find no sorrows and no troubles in life, and who 
hear with incredulity and, in fact, with an entire want of com- 
prehension, about sufferings resulting from witnessing misery^ 
which we have no means of relieving, and the sorrov/s, from 
innumerable sources, to which those of a keenly sensitive na- 
ture are subject. I have never seen these contrasts of char- 
acter in this light. I unhesitatingly believe that a righteous 
Providence has exactly and admirably adjusted the weights 
in either scale. The great mass, who are not disturbed, with 
excess of feeling, are, from the same temperament, inter- 
dicted from a whole universe of enjoyments, into which 
those, who possess sensibility, and regulate it aright, have 
free access. 



257 



Note 41, page 137. 

Man seems to contain, according as he is contemplated 
an different lights, inexplicable contradictions of character ; 
and to be at one time all tenderness of heart ; and at another 
an odious compound of insensibility and cruelty ; according to 
the circumstances with which he is surrounded, and the po- 
sitions in which he is placed. Who could believe, that it 
was the same being, that now dissolves into tears at the re- 
hearsal of a tragedy, on reading a romance or witnessing a 
spectacle of misery, and now hurries from these emotions to 
see a bull-fight ; and in passing to the show, encourages two 
bullies in the street to forma ring, to bruise each other! 
Who would believe, that it has always been considered an 
attribute in the more susceptible sex, to regard duellists with 
a partial eye ; to give a secret place in their kind feelings to 
those who are reckless of their own and another's blood ; and 
more than all to look propitiously on soldiers encrimsoned 
with the fresh stains of the battle field ? Nay, more, who 
reads without astonishment, and almost without unbelief, that 
a whole people, in the days of the pagan Roman emperors, 
^ays of the utmost luxury of taste and refinement, days, in 
which, in all probability, traits of kindness, generosity and 
magnanimity were no more uncommon than now, the ladies 
of the greatest and most splendid city in the world thronged 
with an irrepressible curiosity, and an intense desire, to see 
'naked gladiators lacerate, and stab each other, and old 
and feeble men torn in pieces by lions and wild beasts, 
when merely a movement of a finger would save them ! 

The ministers of the gospel, who attribute the abhorrence, 
which the same spectacles would excite in the population of 
a Christian city, to the humanizing influences of our faith, 
forget that such a city has seen, times without number, its 
inhabitants pouring forth from its gates, to witness miserable 
victims burnt to death at an auto dafe, and shouting with joy 
at the spectacle. 

Protestant ministers exult, in contrasting the influences of 
22* 



258 



the reformed faith with ' results like these ; and yet witness 
their congregations thronging in crowds to see a wretched 
criminal swinging in the agonies of strangulation. The 
same people thrill with horror, as they hear, around their 
evening fire, how those whom they call savages, dance, and 
yell round the stake, at which a captive enemy is burn^ 
ing. To the red man it seems the extreme of cold-blooded 
ferocity, to execute a criminal with a halter, by the hands 
of a person who bears no ill will to the victim. 

Far be it from me to question one of the sublime trophies 
of the gospel, or to doubt its refining and humanizing influ- 
ences. But the whole aspect of history and society com- 
pels me to believe, that fashion and prevalent opinions exert 
an influence, that will bring men to tolerate almost anything. 
I much fear, that the spectacles of the Roman Amphitheatre 
might be revived, if a certain number of any community 
would pertinaciously conspire, to write in favor of them, and 
countenaace them by their presence. 

Note 42, page 137. 

To present, in contrast, the favorable side of human contra- 
dictions : — T have seen a man plunge into the water, and put 
his own life at fearful jeopardy, to rescue a stranger from 
drowning. T have witnessed instances of disinterested and 
heroic sacrifice, which present men in the aspect of angels, 
in every walk of life. Such sublime samples of the capability of 
our nature are the appropriate theme of oratory, painting and 
song ; and cannot be too much blazoned. Pity it is that history 
did not select more instances, and dwell upon them with 
more partial eulogy, instead of amplifying the revolting details 
of war. 

Two instances of affecting manifestation of tenderness 
are deeply impressed upon my memory, simply because they 
were elicited by common cases of suffering ; and had in them 
nothing of romance, or of uncommon tendency to excite 
the feelings. 



259 



I was passing in the streets of one of our northern cities. 
On the marble door steps of a sumptuous mansion sat a rag- 
ged boy, with a look at once dogged and subdued, manifest- 
ing long acquaintance with sorrow and want. Near him sat 
an aged woman, apparently his mother, decrepit, worn and 
squalid, with her face turned from me. The boy was de- 
vouring with voracious greediness a piece of dried herring. 
Fair and richly dressed children were passing to their morn- 
ing school. Most of them jeered him, in passing, calling 
on him to get down from the steps, and asking him if he was 
very hungry ? ' Yes, and you would be hungry, and sad too, 
if you was poor and a stranger, and had to take care of an 
old mother, and had walked as far as I have.' One of the 
boys lingered behind, as if ashamed of his feelings. I noticed 
his broad, high forehead, and eye speaking a soul within. 
His eyes filled with tears, as he handed the boy money. My 
own eyes moistened, as I witnessed the angelic expression of 
this noble boy, who I dare affirm, had not the spirit to do such 
things by halves. 

The other was in another extremity of our country, 
where money and cotton, sugar and slaves, balls and 
theatres are the all-absorbing objects of interest. A large 
group of gaily dressed gentlemen and ladies were promen- 
ading, in company with an heiress and her intended husband, 
who were shortly to be married, and they were merely 
discussing the preparations. A poor, pale boy, apparently a 
stranger, came up to them, with his written petition for 
charity ; and with the low and subdued tone of voice appropri- 
ate to shame, bashfulness and misery, began to tell his little 
story. The splendid laughers walked on with an incurious 
carelessness. One of the group lingered behind. He was 
struggling with the difficulties of obtaining a profession, and 
aiding in the support of a distant family. But, he bestowed 
on the boy one of his few remaining dollars. When I see 
such instances of native tenderness of heart, I thank God 
that men are not totally depraved. 



260 



Note 43, page 138. 

Every one who has had extensive acquaintances, and been 
exposed to frequent requests for letters of recommendation, and 
to procure the intervention and aid of opulent friends, must 
feel the importance and justice of these remarks. We ought 
not to refuse such letters from indolence, selfishness, or the 
commonly alleged fear of troubling our friends. But then, 
the case must be such, as will bear us out, in being meas- 
ured and scrupulous, in regard to the existence, the actual 
truth and justice, of what we advance ; otherwise our inter- 
position will soon be rendered cheap and inefficient ; and will 
react, in creating want of respect for the writer, instead of 
good feeling toward the person recommended. Such, in a 
great measure, is the result, in the current value of these 
letters, as they are emitted, according to the common forms of 
society. 

Note 44, page 139. 

A most affecting proof, that the human heart is not intrin- 
sically bad, and that the obduracy and cold-blooded selfishness 
of the world is adventitious, and the result of our modes and 
our training, is, that the sisters of charity, the truly bene- 
ficent everywhere, create a deep sensation of respect in be- 
holders. Efficient charity is almost the only thing, that no 
one feels disposed to question, or slander. A corpse was 
borne slowly by me, to the place of its long sleep. An im- 
mense procession followed with sorrow and respect impress- 
ed upon their countenances. I asked, whom they were bury- 
ing. ' A single woman without wealth or connexions. ■ — But 
her life has been marked by beneficence.' If that sex, which 
so instinctively desire to appear to advantage, knew, in what 
light a lady, distinguished by fortune and cultivation appears 
while traversing the dirty and dark lanes of a city, to seek 
out, and relieve cases of misery, they would practise charity, 
were it from no higher motive, than to create a sensation, 



261 



and appear lovely. Every one knows the example of the sub- 
lime, quoted by Longinus from Moses. A passage in the 
Gospel seems to me still more sublime. He went about 
doing good. All other homage, than that which the heart 
pays to beneficence, is adventitious. This is real. 

Note 45, page 141. 

Of all xhe pleasures of our earthly sojourn, after those 
of a good conscience, the most varied, and yet equable, 
healthful ad permanent are those of reading. ' I have never,' 
says a resn^ ctable writer, ' passed a comfortable day without 
books sinc' I was capable of reading.' It is certainly pleas- 
ant, to be -able to converse with the wise and instructed of all 
countries and all times without formality, without embarrass- 
ment, and just as long as we choose ; and then dismiss one of 
them without any apology, and sit down with another. We 
travel without expense with them. We inhabit the tropics, or 
the polar circle, the table summits of mountains, or the wide 
plains, at our choice. We journey by land or by sea. We 
select congenial minds, and make them converse with us 
about our congenial pursuits. We throw away no voice. 
We never dialogue in wrath ; and intelligence converses with 
intelligence, divested of terrene grossness and passion. When 
detained on long journeys, in some remote interior tavern, by 
a storm, or inability to find a conveyance, how keenly, while 
reading almanacks of the past years, and old fragments of 
books, found on the dusty shelf of the ordinary, have I felt 
the value of books, as a perfect cure for the impatience of 
such a position. In this state of privation and intellectual 
fasting, we master dull and tiresome books, which, under other 
circumstaiiv^ca, we should not have dreamed of reading. Then 
the mind is taught to pay the proper homage to these intel- 
lectual resources. 

The pleasures of winter reading, in the sacred privacy of 
the parlor, are thus finely described by Thomson, the painter 
of nature. 



262 

' There studious let me sit, 
And hold high converse with the mighty dead ; 
Sages of ancient time, as gods revered. 
As gods beneficent, who bless'd mankind 
With arts, with arms, and humanized a world. 
Roused at th' inspiring thought, I throw aside 
The long-lived volume ; and, deep-musing, hail 
The sacred shades, that slowly-rising pass 
Before my wondering eyes. First Socrates, 
Who, firmly good in a corrupted state. 
Against the rage of tyrants single stood. 
Invincible ! calm Reason's holy law. 
That voice of God within th' attentive mind, 
Obeying, fearless, or in life or death: 
Great moral teacher ! Wisest of mankind ! 
Solon the next, who built his commonweal 
On equity's wide base ; by tender laws 
A lively people curbing, yet undamped 
Preserving still that quick peculiar fire. 
Whence in the laurel'd field of finer arts. 
And of bold freedom, they unequall'd shone. 
The pride of smiling Greece and human kind. 
Lycurgus then, who bow'd beneath the force 
Of strictest discipline, severely wise. 
All human passions. Following him, I see, 
As at Thermopylae he glorious fell, 
The firm devoted chief,* who proved by deeds 
The hardest lesson which the other taught. 
Then Aristides lifts his honest front ; 
Spotless of heart, to whom th' unflattering voice 
Of freedom gave the noblest name of Just y 
In pure majestic poverty revered ; 
Who, e'en his glory to his country's weal 
Submitting, swell'd a haughty rival's f fame, 
Rear'd by his care, of softer ray appears 
Cimon sweet-soul'd ; whose genius, rfeirig strongs 
Shook off the load of young debauch ; abroad 
The scourge of Persian pride, at home the frieii(| 
Of every worth and every splendid art ; 

* Leonidas. f Themistocles. 



263 

Modest and simple, in the pomp of wealth. 
Then the last worthies of declining Greece, 
Late call'd to glory, in unequal times 
Pensive appear. The fair Corinthian boast, 
Timoleon, happy temper! mild and firm, 
Who wept the brother while the tyrant bled. 
And, equal to the best, the Theban Pair,* 
Whose virtues, in heroic concord join'd, 
Their country raised to freedom, empire, fame. 
He too, with whom Athenian honor sunk, 
And left a mass of sordid lees behind, 
Phocion the Good ; in public life severe, 
To virtue still inexorably firm ; 
But when, beneath his low illustrious roof. 
Sweet peace and happy wisdom smooth'd his brow, 
Not friendship softer was, nor love more kind. 
And he, the last of old Lycurgus' sons. 
The generous victim to that vain attempt. 
To save a rotten state, Agis,who saw 
E'en Sparta's self to servile avarice sunk. 
The two Achaian heroes close the train : 
Aratus, who a while relumed the soul 
Of fondly lingering liberty in Greece ; 
And he, her darling as her latest hope. 
The gallant Philopoemen ; who to arms 
Turn'd the luxurious pomp he could not cure ; 
Or toiling on his farm, a simple swain ; 
Or, bold and skilful, thundering in the field. 
' Of rougher front, a mighty people comes ! 
A race of heroes ! in those virtuous times 
Which knew no stain, save that with partial flame 
Their dearest country they too fondly loved : 
Her better Founder first, the light of Rome, 
Numa, who soften'd her rapacious sons ; 
Servius the king, who laid the solid base 
On which o'er earth the vast republic spread. 
Then the great consuls venerable rise. 
The public Father! who the private quell'd, 
As on the dread tribunal sternly sat. 

* Pelopidas and Epaminondas. t Marcus Junius Brutus. 



264 

He whom his thankless country could not lose, 
Camillus, only vengeful to her foes. 
Fabricius, scorner of all -conquering gold ; 
And Cincinnatus, awful from the plough. 
Thy willing victim,* Carthage, bursting loose 
From all that pleading Nature could oppose. 
From a whole city's tears, by rigid faith 
Imperious call'd, and honor's dire command. 
Scipio, the gentle chief, humanely brave, 
Who soon the race of spotless glory ran. 
And, warm in youth, to the poetic shade 
With Friendship and Philosophy retired. 
Tully, whose powerful eloquence a while 
Restrain'd the rapid fate of rushing Rome. 
Unconquer'd Cato, virtuous in extreme ; 
And thou, unhappy Brutus, kind of heart, 
Whose steady arm, by awful virtue urged. 
Lifted the Roman steel against thy friend. 
Thousands besides the tribute of a verse 
Demand; but who can count the stars of heaven ? 
Who sing their influence on this lower world ? 
' Behold, who yonder comes ! in sober state, 
Fair, mild, and strong, as is a vernal sun ; 
'Tis Phoebus' self, or else the Mantuan swain ! 
Great Homer too appears, of daring wing. 
Parent of song ! and, equal by his side. 
The British Muse : join'd hand in hand they walk. 
Darkling, full up the middle steep to fame, 
Nor absent are those shades, whose skilful touch 
Pathetic drew th' impassion'd heart, and charm'd 
Transported Athens with the moral scene ; 
Nor those who, tuneful, waked th' enchanted lyre. 

' First of your kind ! society divine ! 
Still visit thus my nights, for you reserved. 
And mount my soaring soul to thoughts like yours. 
Silence, thou lonely power ! the door be thine ; 
See on the hallow'd hour that none intrude, 
Save a few chosen friends, who sometimes deign 
To bless my humble roof, with sense refined, 
Learning digested well, exalted faith. 
Unstudied wit, and humor ever gay. 

* Regulus. 



265 

Or from the Muses' hill will Pope descend, 
To raise the sacred hour, to bid it smile. 
And with the social spirit warm the heart? 
For though not sweeter his own Homer sings, 
Yet is his life the more endearing song. 

Note 46, page 142. 

Whoever has attempted to concentrate his thoughts in fix- 
ed contemplation upon the origin of the human race, the ob- 
ject of our present existence, and our prospects beyond it, 
upon the character aiid plan of the divinity, and the 
mode of his being-, must have felt a painful vagueness, a diz- 
zying sense of the weakness of our powders, very nat- 
urally preparing us for superstitious and terrific views of 
the first cause. But when, in the clear light of reason, I 
look upon his creation, on his star-spangled firmament, and 
the glory of his works, I should as soon doubt my own exist- 
ence, as the perfect wisdom and goodness of the author of 
my being. All religion, which does not strengthen our con- 
fidence in this, must be a dreary illusion. Horrible dreams, 
dating their origin from the associations of childhood, and the 
rant of wild and visionary ministers, may sometimes interpose, 
in the uncertain moments between sleeping and waking, as 
among the gloomy presentiments and partial delirium of ill 
health. But every rational mind must finally settle to repose 
in that glorious persuasion, which instantly irradiates the mor- 
al universe with perennial sunshine. ' The Ijord reigneth ; let 
the earth rejoice.' In this or any other world, in our present 
or any other forms of conscious being, we may advance upon 
the unexplored scenes with a full confidence that we can nev- 
er travel beyond the beneficence and equity of the infinite 
mind. 

One of the standing themes of Christian pulpits is the 
puerile and absurd views, which the common creed of the 
Greeks and Romans presented of the rabble divinities of their 
Pantheon ; deities, who fought, intrigued, made love, and in- 
toxicated themselves ; deities, who had great power in a 
23 



266 



valley, and none on the adjoining hills ; deities, who were 
conquered, and transferred with their territory, and became in 
consequence subservient to their conquerors. I have heard 
discussions of this kind in the discourse of the sabbath morn- 
ing : and, in that of the evening, views of Christian theology, 
scarcely less narrow and unworthy of the Supreme Being. I 
am compelled to believe, from reading and observation, that 
the mass of the people, in all churches, have had no oth- 
er conception of the divinity, than that of a being molded 
much like themselves. We cannot avoid discovering, that 
their ideas of a God are gross, material, local, partial ; that they 
behold him, as the God of their place, party and passions. 
Converse with the fiercer sects, and you perceive, that their 
views immediately become vague, as soon as they contemplate 
the Almighty occupied with concerns beyond their sect It 
seems beyond their thoughts, to realize, that their denomin- 
ation bears to the species little more than the proportion of a 
drop to the ocean ; and that the Supreme Being cannot be 
rationally supposed more concerned about them, than any other 
equal number of his children. 

Nothing can be more philosophical, or consoling, than the 
Scripture views of what has been called a. particular provi- 
dence. But, as we hear it generally expounded from the press, 
the pulpit, and in common conversation, it offers views of the 
divine Being and government, scarcely less weak, monstrous 
and unworthy, than those entertained by the ancient pagans. 
What a conception, to suppose that a perfect law, as wise and 
equitable in its general operation, as infinite wisdom and good- 
ness could ordain, could be continually infringed, to meet 
countless millions of opposing prayers and interests ! What 
a view of God, to imagine, that earnest and concurrent 
prayers can at any time divert him from his purpose, and 
change his plans ! What palpable misinterpretation of the 
Scriptures, to suppose, that they give any countenance to such 
debasing conceptions of God I Hear rigid sectarians converse, 
and you discover, that they think little of the divine provi- 
dence, which has no reference to their individual interests and 



267 



concerns. From the tone of their conversations, it is but too 
manifest, that" they have an interior confidence, that they can 
obtain of the divine power, ahnost what they will. 

The testimony of church history and the experience of time 
testify, that the million, under all degrees of light, shrink from 
the difficult and philosophical idea of the real Jehovah of the 
Bible ; and form, instead, the easy and natural image of a 
limited, partial, changeable God, whom importunity can easily 
induce to swerve from his purpose ; and who is, in many res- 
pects, such a being as themselves. It is the embodied con- 
ception of their own narrow views, assigned to a local habit- 
ation. To him the countless millions of other lands, and 
other forms of worship, are not, like them, as children. Unable 
to rise to the Supreme Being, they have brought Him down 
to them. 

A few minds, from age to age, elevated by endowment and 
circumstances far above their cotemporaries, have not only 
embraced, in common with others, the easy and simple sen- 
timents of Him, which the heart entertains, but have raised 
their contemplations so high, as to behold Him in the light of 
truth — have seen Him, in some sense, as He is — have been 
filled With awe and confidence, in the view of his immuta- 
bility, and with filial and cheerful resignation, in seeing in the 
universe, its order, mutations and variety, in the mixed con- 
dition of man, in a word, in every feature of the natural and 
and moral creation, as in a mirror, a perfect transcript of the 
divine perfections — a pattern of an archetype without a shade 
of defect. Instead of bringing the Divine Being down to 
them, they have raised themselves up to Him. The veil, that 
screens his glory from the feeble vision of the multitude, has 
been removed. Being assured, that He has made of one 
blood all nations, that dwell on the earth, they have seen it 
to be impossible, that He should look upon one portion of his 
children with more favor than on another. They have seen, 
in the superior light and advantages of one part of the spe- 
cies over another, not the indication, of what is technically- 
called special favor, but the natural result of the operation of 



268 



his universal laws. They have seen, that if the inhabitants 
of one region are enabled to rise higher in the intellectual 
scale, and pay him a more spiritual and worthy homage — the 
simple inhabitants of distant, barbarous isles have an organi- 
zation admitting them to be as happy as their natures will ad- 
mit, and as full of enjoyment as their measure can contain. 
If they are unable to offer an intellectual worship, the ser- 
vice of their minds, their hearts are formed for fervent admi- 
ration and worship of the thunderer — the being, who raises 
fruits and flowers, and hangs out his bow on their clouds. 
They see, in all this, that God, also, hath set one thing over 
against another. 

Note 47, page 144. 

The wisdom of allowing any place to the imagination, 
among the faculties to be nurtured, I have often heard call- 
ed in question. The extremes of opinion frequently meet in 
the same point. The most earnest declaimers against the in- 
dulgence of the imagination are commonly found among the 
class of strict religionists. It is, at the same time, a strong 
and prominent trait in the system of Mr Owen 'the philoso- 
pher of circumstances,' and his followers, that we ought to 
eradicate this faculty, if possible, or at least suppress its ex- 
ercise ; and reduce all mental operations to the cultivation of 
the reasoning powers. For me, I hold, that we are as much 
indebted to the author of our being for granting us this faculty 
as any other. I see nothing wrong, or unphilosophical in cul- 
tivating it to the utmost extent ; provided our imaginings 
would be innocent, if we could render them realities ; unless 
it can be shown, that the indulgence of this faculty enervates 
the mind, and unfits it for encountering the stern duties and 
trials of life. So far from believing this to be the natural 
tendency of its allowed exercise, my experience has led me 
to suppose, that persons, strongly endowed with this faculty, 
are most likely to show energy for the discharge of common 
duties ; and constancy and cheerfulness in encountering tri- 



269 



als. Are the southern people of Europe, for example, less 
firm in conflicting with danger and sorrow, or more feeble 
and remiss in the discharge of duties, than the northern nations, 
admitted to be far less imaginative ? Within the range of my 
experience, I find those possessed of the most vivid imagina- 
tion, the most prompt to duty, and the most cheerful in sor- 
row. The moody advocates of pure and exclusive reason lay 
feeling, one of the strongest impulses to duty, out of the 
question; and would extinguish one of the surest supports in 
sorrow, the power of creating a bright internal world for 
ourselves, when the external world is involved in unavoidable 
gloom. 

They who decry the indulgence of the imagination, must, 
of course, object to the endowment of poets and painters ; 
and equally to the pleasure derived from reading poetry, and 
contemplating paintings. The whole empire of these kind- 
red studies is that of the imagination. Let us try the alleged 
puerility of indulging this faculty. No one will deny, that 
it is the highest wisdom to seek to be as happy, as we inno- 
cently may. When a mental faculty is employed in creating 
within us a celestial world, peopled with nobler beings, act- 
ing from higher motives, and showing a happier existence ; 
and in substituting the beautiful possible for the tame real ; if 
we find innocent happiness in this celestial castle-building, 
are we not employing reason, only in a diflferent direction from 
the common ? When any one can prove to me, that it is puerile, 
to make ourselves happy, and from sources always within our 
own control, then I will admit, that ideal pleasures are unwor- 
thy of a reasonable being. Prove only, that the indulgence of 
the faculty enervates the mind, and indisposes it for duty and 
constancy in sufi'ering, and I will grant at once, that it should 
be stifled, or its action restricted or suppressed. So far from 
believing this to be the fact, I would counsel him, whom I 
most love, to seek in her whom he would select for his wife, 
a cheerful and active imagination. It is an egregious mistake, 
that mathematicians and practical men have generally been 
found destitute of a good development of this faculty. Con- 
23^ 



270 



trary to the vulgar and hackneyed theme of pulpit declama- 
tion, I have found on examination, that some of the most en- 
ergetically charitable women, I have ever known, were veter- 
an novel readers ; as have also been some of the mo&^t profound 
lawyers that have ever adorned the judgment seat in our 
country. 

Note 48, page 145. 

It is not exactly true, that this faculty can be subjected to 
the compL'te control of the will. I know of no point in me- 
taphysics, connected, also, with an important question in rheto- 
ric, upon which less light has been thrown, than the question, 
how far, and in what way the imagination can be cultivated: 
and by what methods brought under the control of the will. 
A system of useful and practical rules for this result is, as 
far as my reading extends, a desideratum. Dr Johnson, it is 
well known, believed, that a man's muse was sua dextra, his 
own will, industry and habits, and that by a vigorous effort 
over himself, he could write, for example, at any time. This 
may be true in efforts, in which imagination is not required.; 
but, where the vivid exercise of this faculty is requisite to ex- 
cellence, it is not true. Let the most amply endowed poet 
suffer under mental depression, dyspepsia, a concurrence of 
small misfortunes and petty vexations. Let him write in a 
smoky apartment, and look abroad upon a leaden sky, marked 
with the dulness of winter, without its storms and congenial 
horrors. He may repair to his rules. He may apply the 
whip and spur, and invoke the nimble fancies from the 
vasty deep, and the muses from their hill, but they will not 
answer, nor come at his bidding. 

The imagination may be cultivated to a certain extent ; and 
brought by rules and intense concentration of mind, in a cer- 
tain degree, under the control of the will. Those, who would 
nurture it, ought intensely to study those rules. But, after all, 
to be able to exercise it in high measures of vivacity, is an en- 
dowment, in the bestowment of which nature has been more 



271 



capricious than in almost any other. Even when possessed in 
copious measures, its province lies so intermediate between cor- 
poreal and mental influence, between the prevalent tempera- 
ment of the period of its action, and the concurrence of exter- 
nal circumstances beyond our control, that we can easily see, 
why the wise ancients, who thought more justly upon these 
subjects, and more profoundly than the moderns seem to be will- 
ing to apprehend, attributed the successful efforts of the muses 
to a superior and celestial influence. He, who pushes the 
theory of our control over this faculty beyond truth, adopts 
an error, nearly if not quite as dangerous, as he, who holds, 
that we have no control over it at all. 

A thousand external circumstances, which it would require 
a volume to enumerate, must concur with a certain easy and 
strong excitability in the physical and mental frame ; and that 
excitability called into action by the right sort of stimulants, to 
impart happy and vigorous action to the imagination. Milton 
afl5.rmed, thafe his muse was most propitious in the spring. As 
far as I can judge, the season of reproduction, and the awa- 
kening of the slumbering powers of nature, in the aroma and 
brilliancy of vegetation and flowers, acts too voluptuously on 
the senses, to give the highest and best direction to the imagi- 
nation. The Indian summer days of autumn, Mnth the asso- 
ciated repose of nature, the broad and crimson disk of the 
sun enthroned in the dome of a misty sky, the clouds sleep- 
ing in the firmament, the gorgeous coloring of the forests, the 
flashing fall of the first leaves, and the not unpleasing sad- 
ness of the images, called up by the imperceptible decay of 
nature, and the stealthy approach of winter, seem to me most 
favorable to heavenly musing. A cloudless morning, a beauti- 
ful sun, the glittering brightness of the dew drops, the renovat- 
ed freshness of nature, morning sounds, the mists rolling 
away from the path of the sun, a bland southwest breeze, 
good health, self-satisfaction, the recent reception of good 
news, and the right train of circumstances all concur to put 
this faculty into its happiest action. 
Every one is acquainted with the unsparing ridicule be- 



272 



stowed on Bayes, in Buckingham's Rehearsal, for announcing', 
that he always took physic, before he wrote. Yet the dull 
coxcomb had reason and truth on his side. Mental action is 
more dependent upon corporeal, and the ethereal powers upon 
the right disposition of that organized clod, the body, than 
most are willing to acknowledge. Who has not felt, when 
first going abroad from severe sickness, the new aspects of na- 
ture, a fullness of heart, and the crowding of innumerable 
images upon the thoughts, which have no place in the mind, 
after a turtle feast or a full dinner ? When the digestive pow- 
ers are oppressed with morbid accumulation, the wheels of 
mental movement, as every one knows, move heavily. Stu- 
dents, orators, painters, poets, imaginative men must live as 
near famine as may be, and the most useful stimulants are 
coffee and tea. Every one has read, that Byron's inspiration 
was gin. It may be, that the detestible combination of tere- 
binthine and alcoholic excitement may have aroused from the 
mouldy and terrene dormitories of his brain the images of Don 
Juan, and the obscene, irreligious, antisocial, and fierce 
thoughts, that abound in his works. But I would hardly be- 
lieve, on his own assertion, that he wrote the Prisoners of Chil- 
lon under such an influence. The muse of alcohol is accurs- 
ed; and her influence is too corroding, dreggy, and adverse 
to life, to originate ideas worthy of being handed down in 
immortal verse. If these baleful aids were resorted to at all, I 
should consider opium a thousand times preferable to al- 
cohol. 

I know, from my own experience, that this reality of actu- 
al and present existence may be imparted to the creations of 
the imagination, by long habits of subjecting it to the control 
of the will. The enjoyment, resulting from reality, may be 
more intense, but it is, also, more tumultuous and feverish. I 
know of no happiness, more pure, prolonged and tranquil, more 
like what we may imagine to be the bliss of higher intelli- 
gences, than to be able to create this sunshine of the soul, this 
fair and celestial world within ourselves, and make ouifselves 
free denizens of the country. From these fairy mansions la- 



273 



bor, care and want are excluded. The obstacles and impedi- 
ments of time, distance, and disease, both of body and mind, 
are excluded. The inhabitants, walking in the light of truth 
and the radiance of immortal beauty, from sin and death for- 
ever free, unite the wisdom of angels to the simplicity and 
affectionate confidence of children. 

Note 49, page 145. 

No people, in my estimation, are farther from true wisdom, 
than they, who denounce these pleasures of the imagination, 
as the puerile follies of weak minds. They who are most 
prompt to bring the charge, are generally destitute of the 
faculty*, and its kindred endowments themselves ; and seem 
to desire that other minds should be reduced to their own 
scale of sterility. Puerile, to avail ourselves of the power of 
rendering ourselves innocently happy ! To me the puerility 
belongs to those who mostly abstain from contemplating the 
few gleams of sunshine, that we can behold between the era- 
die and the grave. ' But these joys are unreal ! ' What is 
there in the vain show of life, that is not so ? See the greedy 
scramble of ambition, after honor, wealth and distinction, the 
painted baubles of insects, who hold all by the frail tenure of 
life! Life itself, what is it, but a dream, soma times illumin- 
ed by the rainbows of imagination and hope ? 

Note 50, page 146. 

A being endowed with such intense emotions, as man ; and 
so placed, as to have them so strongly called forth by the re- 
lations he contracts : so much in the dark in regard to his ori- 
gin, his end and everything about him, conscious, that he 
must shortly leave home, all that he loves, the view of the 
earth and the sky, and that body, which long habit has taught 
him to consider as himself, to molder back to the soil, should 
naturally be expected to have this tendency to melancholy. 
Beautifully said the fabulist, ' that he who formed us, moisten- 
ed the clay of our structure not with water but tears.' The 
natural expression of the human countenance in sleep ia 



274 



shaded with a slight veil of melancholy. It has been obserred, 
that the national music of all people, and, more especially, of 
the uncivilized tribes, is on a key of melancholy. Most of 
the voices of the animal tribes are of this cast. The strain of 
the nightingale is the deepest expression of this sentiment- 
Religion should be the grand re-agent, in bringing light and 
cheerfalness to a universe of sadness and death, by present- 
ing new views of that universe, its author, his beneficence, 
aad the ultimate hope of the soul. 

' See troth, love and mercy in triumph descending. 
And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom ; 
On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blending. 
And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb. 

>'ote 5-:, paze U9. 

With the honorable exception of some towns and districts in 
our country, the epitaphs and monumental inscriptions are 
utterly beneath criticism. The greater portion are from 
Watts, and the other minor poets, too often little more than ex- 
travagant, coarse, miserable conceits. Here and there, abeau- 
tifiil quotation from the Bible, such as ' Blessed are the dead, 
who die in the Lord ; ' ' Man coraeth forth, like a flower, and 
is cut down,' only serve to render the worthlessness of the 
remainder more conspicious by contrast. What adds to the 
unpleasant effect is, that no inconsiderable portion of them 
are absolutely misspelt, to say nothing of the punctuation. 
Strange, that survivors should incur the expense of a slab, and 
permit a stone-cutter to select, spell, and point the inscriptions. 
It is to be hoped, that some competent writer will, ere long, 
take in hand this matter, so vital to the literary reputation of 
our country, and introduce a thorough and general reform, by 
wiping away this national stain, and introducing that beauti- 
ful and sublime simplicity, which ought always to characterize 
monumental inscriptions. 

Akin to the bad taste of this sort, is the slovenly manner 
in which our church-yards are kept, in whole sections of the 
eountry. Who has not felt pain, at seeing many and even 



275 



most of these places sacred to memory, in tlie western coun- 
ty especially, uninclosed, trampled upon by cattle, and the 
narrow heap of turf disturbed by swine ? 

Of writers, whose works have been immortalized by the 
muse of melancholy, I am acquainted, in the French language, 
with Chateaubriand, who has produced occasional passages 
of this class not to be surpassed ; and Lamartine, whose poe- 
try breathes a rich and deep strain of melancholy. Young^s 
Night Thoughts, Blair's Grave, and Porteus * on Death,' are 
celebrated English specimens of this class of poetry. In our 
country the Thanatopsis of Bryant ranks quite as high as 
either of the former writers in this walk. Some of the 
lines are of exquisite beauty, as paintings of the trophies of 
the tomb. Another age will do justice to many of the 
thoughts in the Sorotaphion of a young poet, who has writ- 
ten on the remote shores of Red River. 

The first lines of the inscription on the famous Roman 
statue of Sleep are the sublimest concentration of melancholy 
thought : 

' It is better to sleep, than wake ; and best of all to be in 
marble.' 

The same may be said of that of the orphan nun, who died 
in the prime of youth and beauty : ' I was alone among the 
living. I am alone here.' 

But it is in thebookof Job, that poetic images, upon which 
has been thrown the shade of a sublime melancholy, are set 
forth, with a power and pathos that leave little more, to suc- 
ceeding writers in that walk, than to study, combine, and re- 
produce their features. How perfectly has this author given 
utterance to the groans of one in utter despondency and be- 
reavement ! Here the heart speaks its own language, with a 
simplicity and truth to make its way to every other heart. 
These features fix the date of this poem at a period antecedent 
lo the settled art of writing, and plagiarizing the shadow of a 
shade, more conclusively than volumes of criticism. He copied 
not ; but drank at the fountain ; feeling deeply, and expressing 
what he felt. 



276 



Note 52, page 149. 

When in my travels I pass through a town, or village, which 
I have not seen, if I have sufficient leisure, the first place 
which I visit, is uniformly the church-yard. The feel- 
ing that I am a stranger, that I know not the scenery, and 
that it knows not me, naturally induces a sort of pensive med- 
itation, which disposes me for that sojourn. I form certain es, 
timates of the taste and moral feeling of the people, from the 
forms and devices of the slabs and monuments ; and the or- 
der in which the consecrated ground is inclosed, and kept. 
The inscriptions are ordinarily, in too bad a taste to claim 
much interest, though there are few church-yards, that cannot 
show some monuments, which, by their eccentric variation 
from the rest, mark character. All this is a matter of trifling 
interest, compared with the throng of remembrances and an- 
ticipations, that naturally crowd upon the spirit of a stranger 
in such a place. Youth with its rainbows, and its loves ; ma- 
ture age with its ambitious projects ; old age in the midst of 
children, death in the natal spot, or the house of the stranger ; 
eternity with its dim and illimitable mysteriousness ; these 
shadowy images, with their associated thoughts, pass through 
the mind, and return, like the guests at an inn. While I 
look up towards the rolling clouds, and the sun walking his 
unvarying path along the firmament, how natural the reflection, 
that they will present the same aspect, and suggest the same 
reflections, that the trees will stand forth in their foliage and 
the hills in their verdure, to him who comes after me, when I 
shall have taken my place with the unconscious sleepers about 
me ! I never fail to recollect the charming reflections in a 
number of the Spectator, that treats upon a visit to Westmin- 
ster Abbey, the most impressive writing of the kind, as it 
seems to me, in our language. 

Here is the place to reflect upon the folly, if not the guilt, 
of human hatred and revenge, ambition and avarice, and the 
million puerile projects and cares, that are incessantly over- 



277 



clouding the sunshine of existence. What an eloquent lesson 
do these voiceless preachers read, upon the wisdom of most of 
those thoughts and solicitudes, that disturb our course through 
life! 

The heart cannot but be made better by occasional commun- 
ion with these tenants of the narrow house, where — 

'Each waits the other's license to disturb 

The deep, unbroken silence.' 

Note 53, page 150. 

It is questionable, how far they could lay claim to be the 
real friends of humanity, Avho would reason away this last, 
best solace of human wretchedness, even were it proved an 
illusion. But man is just as certainly and necessarily a re- 
ligious being, as he is a being constituted with appetites and 
passions. Grant, that there are people, who seem wholly des- 
titute of the religious sentiment. Such are the real Atheists 
from internal conviction ; for observe, there are many, who 
assume to be such, to pass for free and independent thinkers, 
and who are most likely, in their dying moments, to requiTe 
absolution and extreme unction. But if there are men thus 
monstrously constituted, so are there individuals apparently 
as destitute of the common appetites and passions. We take 
no account of such exceptions, in indicating a general rule ; 
and say, that man is constituted a religious being, and possess- 
ed of certain appetites and passions ; although there may be 
selected a few individuals, who seem entirely without either. 

Religion is the key stone of the arch of the moral universe. 
It is the fountain of endearing friendship ; and on it are found- 
ed those sublime relations, which exist between the visible 
and the invisible world ; those, who still sojourn here, and 
those who have become citizens of the country beyond us. It 
is the poesy of existence, the basis of all high thought and 
virtuous feeling ; of charities and morals ; and the very tie 
of social existence. Let no person claim to be good, while 
laying an unhallowed hand upon this ark of the covenant of 
the Eternal with the children of sorrow and death. 
24 



278 



Note 54, page 154. 

Treatises upon the evidences of religion may be useful for 
theological students ; and I have heard people affirm, that they 
have been rescued by such works from the gloom of unbe- 
lief. But, believing, as I do, that we were constituted reli- 
gious animals, if such a term may be admitted, and that the 
religious sentiment is a part of our organization, I have quite 
as much confidence in the arguments of the heart, as of the 
head. I undertake not to pronounce, whether M. de Chateau- 
briand were a good chrislian, or not. But I affirm, that I have 
nowhere seen my own views of the process, by which the 
original endowment of the religious sentiment is called into 
action, so eloquently described, as in the following extract 
from that writer. 

' My mother, after being thrown, at the age of seventytwo 
years, into a dungeon, where she saw a part of her children 
perish, expired at last upon a couch of straw, to which her 
miseries had consigned her. The remembrance of my errors 
infused great bitterness into her last days. In death she 
charged one of my sisters to recall me to that religion, in 
which I had been reared. My sister transmitted me the last 
wish of my mother. When this letter reached me beyond 
the seas, my sister herself Avas no more. She had died from 
the consequences of her imprisonment. These two voices, 
proceeding from the tomb, this death, which served as the in- 
terpreter of the dead, deeply struck me. I did not yield, I 
admit, to great supernatural lights. My conviction proceed- 
ed from the heart. I wept, and I bslieved.' 

Note 55, pige 157. 

The belief naturally originated by the sentiment of reli- 
gion, or what may be called the faith of the heart, is presented 
in the last fruitless attempt of the old man, to cheer the des- 
pair of Paul in the exquisite tale of Paul and Virginia. ' And 



279 



why deplore the fate of Virginia ? Virginia still exists. There 
is, be assured, a region, in which virtue receives its reward. 
Virginia now is happy. Oh ! if from the abode of angels, she 
could tell you, as she did, when she bade you farewell, " O Paul, 
life is but a trial. I was faithful to the laws of nature, love 
and virtue. Heaven found I had fulfilled my duties, and 
snatched me forever from all the miseries, T might have en- 
dured myself; and all, I might have felt for the miseries of 
others. 1 am placed above the reach of all human evils, and 
you pity me ! I am become pure and unchangeable, as a par- 
ticle of light, and you would recall me to the darkness of hu- 
man life. O Paul ! O my beloved friend ! Recollect those 
days of happiness, when in the morning we felt the delightful 
sensations excited by the unfolding beauties of nature ; when 
we gazed upon the sun, gilding the peaks of those rocks ; 
and then spreading his rays over the bosom of the forests. 
How exquisite were our emotions, while we enjoyed the glow- 
ing colors of the opening day, the odors of our shrubs, the 
concerts of our birds ! Now at the source of beauty, from 
which flows all that is delightful on earth, my soul intuitively 
sees, tastes, hears, touches, what before she could only be 
made sensible of through the medium of our weak organs. 
Oh ! what language can describe, those shores of eternal 
bliss, which I inhabit forever! All, that infinite power and ce- 
lestial bounty can confer, that harmony, which results from 
friendship with numberless beings, exulting in the same fe- 
licity, we enjoy in unmixed perfection. Support, then, the 
trial which is allotted you, that you may heighten the happi- 
ness of your Virginia, by love, which will know no termina- 
tion, by hymeneals, which will be immortal. There I will 
calm your regrets ; I will wipe away your tears. Raise your 
thoughts towards infinite duration, and bear the evils of a 
moment." ' 



280 



JNote 56; page IGO. 

Phrenologists afSrm, that along the centre of the croTrn is 
situated the organ of veneration, ur religious sentiment ; that, 
where it is large, the subject is strongly endowed with reli- 
gious feeling, and the contrary, when it is otherwise ; that, with 
some few monstrous exceptions, all possess this organ in a 
larger or smaller degree ; and that, as the sentiment spring- 
ing from the action of this organ is directed towards proper 
or improper objects, enlightened by reason, rendered gloomy 
by fear, or superstitious by credulity, is the religious charac- 
ter of the person. Neither my subject, nor my inclination 
calls upon me to agitate a system, which has generally been 
met only with unsparing ridicule, instead of manly argument. 
With its doctrines or merits I intermeddle not in this place. 
But, as far as the system declares, that those people, whom 
we call pious, whose tone of mind seems to dispose them to 
strong religious feeling, are so inclined from organization, 
rather than Tolition, or argument, I most confidently believe. 
Morals, whatever is taught by the science of ethics, dogmas, 
ceremonies, commonly phrased religion, make, in my mind, 
no part of it. I consider religion to be simply love, origina- 
ting from instinctive impulses of veneration in the mind, for 
whatever is powerful, beneficent, and worthy of love. Its 
native tendency is to expend its affection, first upon the un- 
known and incomprehensible power, from whom we derived 
our being, whom the heart, without argument, intuitively per- 
ceives to be good. Its next and associated tendency is phi- 
lanthropy, or the love of what bears the impress and image 
of God. If we possess not this original organization, no ar- 
gument v> ill ever persuade us to be religious. If we have it, 
we may be liberal, or bigoted. Christians or Mahometans, ear- 
nest or cold, according to our proportion of endowment, our 
training and circumstances. We may even adopt the flip- 
pant arguments of the unbelieving, and enlist ourselves un- 
der their banner. But the original principle is still within uSj 



281 



uneradicated, and uneradicable ; and ready, if circumstances 
should favor the change, to present us in the form of devo- 
tees, or, as the phrase is, converted. The whole wisdom and 
excellence of religious training consist in enlightening this 
noble sentiment, and giving it a right direction. I am the 
rather confirmed in these views, by having remarked, that the 
chief, palpable and tangible influences of religion,which I have 
witnessed in all the sects, that I have had occasion to ob- 
serve, have seemed to me to result from the aflfectionate spirit 
of their worship, creating in them strong dispositions to love 
one another. 

Open the gospels and the epistles, and what is the first im- 
pression from perusing these unique and original writings , 
so wholly unlike any other recorded compositions, and bear- 
ing upon a theme of such astonishing import? The simplici- 
ty and fervor, with which the spirit of love is impressed upon 
the pages. Tihe strong and before unwitnessed manifesta- 
tion of this spirit was the striking aspect, which the first Chris- 
tians presented to pagan beholders. ' See ! ' said they, ' how 
these Christians love one another.' Every time, I peruse the 
writings of the New Testament, this peculiar badge of dis- 
cipleship seems more visibly impressed upon them. In 
what other institution, but that of Christianity, was it ever 
practicable to possess all taxings in common ? Where has been 
the community, in which no one felt want, when a disciple 
had wherewith to satisfy it? In what other chronicles do we 
meet with such afiiecting and sublime examples of devotion 
to each other, and a constancy of affection, Avhich showed it- 
self proof against all other human passions, selfishness, hope, 
fear, earthly love, and the terror of death ? What tenderness 
and singleness of heart in their afifection for each other ! 
How beautifully they demonstrate, that the sentiment, which 
actuated them, had gained a complete triumph over all con- 
siderations, arising from objects below the sun ? He on whose 
bosom the loved disciple leaned must certainly be admitted 
to know the peculiar and distinguishing feature of his religion^ 
This feature stands forth embodied in all his teachings. Phil' 
24* 



282 



anthropyis the predominant trait in the life of him, who went 
about doing good. Consider the basis of religion to be a sen- 
timent implanted in our constitution, and this result would 
naturally be expected to flow from its development. 

True religion, consisting in an enlightened and aifection- 
ate direction of the heart towards the divinity, and manifest- 
ing itself in love to the human family, and in consequent obe- 
dience to the universal and unchangeable laws of the Crea- 
tor, can only be expected to result from the highest discipline 
of the mind, and the ultimate exercise of the purest reason. 
But the sentiment, from which this religion springs, in some 
form or other, as naturally impels the heart towards God, and 
its faith and aspirations towards immortality, as fishes desire 
to find their home in the water, or birds in the air ; and as eve- 
rything, that has life, obeys the peculiar instincts and impul- 
ses impressed by the divine hand. Why else, should every 
people under heaven,, in all time, have been found with a re- 
ligion in some form, and hopes and fears beyond the grave ? 
Consider religion in this light, and its hopes are as sure, as 
those objects, towards which the instincts of all other animals 
prompt them. 

Do I undervalue morals, since I do not deem them a part, 
of what should be properly called religion ? I trust, I cannot 
be so mistaken. Ethics may be taught, as a science, and, how- 
ever important, seems to me no more a part of religion, than 
mathematics or natural philosophy. Love will create morals ; 
and its perfection the perfection of morals, that we ascribe to 
angels. All that has been urged from the pulpit, in re- 
gard to faith and works, as cause and effect, may, with still 
more justice, be applied to love and duty. Love is the faith 
of the heart, and its original impress, when rightly trained in 
the science of ethics, and enlightened by pure and simple rea- 
son, produces its results in the best exemplification of the 
christian character. 



283 



Note 57, page 1G5. 

That person has no right to complain of the shortness of 
life, who lies in bed, either sleeping, or dozing, until nine ; 
and thus voluntarily consigns to unconsciousness a twelfth 
part of his existence. As little reason has he for indulging a 
querulous spirit on this score, if he spends without object a 
considerable portion of his time with people, about whom he 
knows nothing, except that they are incapable of furnishing 
a moment's pleasure, or instruction to any one. If each one 
noted down at night the incidents of the day, that had occu- 
pied his time, and how much of it he had appropriated to each, 
I fear all that portion, that we call people of leisure would 
be able to show but a lean schedule either of utility or enjoy- 
ment, as the result. 

Complaints of the brevity of life are equally interdicted to 
all those, who do not wisely improve every hour of the brief 
and uncertain present. He, who regretted his stinted fortune, 
would find, and deserve little sympathy, if, in the very mo- 
ments of complaining, he was seen inconsiderately squander- 
ing from that limited fund. To form a resolution to mark 
every moment of life, that we might, with a succession of 
pleasant ideas, would probably triple the duration of most hu- 
man lives. To sleep no more than nature requires, to rise 
early, to discipline ourselves to preserve an elastic and active 
spirit and a vigorous will, are parts of this resolution. It is 
a much greater part, than is commonly apprehended, to waste 
as little time as possible on those, who are incapable of un- 
derstanding us, and whom we are as little capable of under- 
standing. Reciprocal good feeling is much more likely to be 
created, and sustained by those who are determined to avoid 
this course, than those who, from mere unmeaning civility and 
common etiquette, bring their incompatibilities together, to 
make common stock of a mutual weariness with each other, 
which soon ripens into concealed, if not expressed ill feel- 
ing. 



284 



They, who are accustomed to think in this direction, will 
easily fill out the fine outline of the author's views touching the 
right mode to arrest the flight of time. To add to this sketch 
would require an extent of detail, for which I have here no 
place. The general principle of this process seems to con- 
sist in meeting pain and adversity with a spirit so philosophic 
and firm that they will recoil from it ; and to dwell upon every 
innocent enjoyment, as though it were our first, and would be 
our last ; to prolong it by investing it with all possible moral 
relations ; and to discipline the mind never to become hack- 
neyed, sated, wearied, and callous to the sense of objects in 
which man is bound to feel an interest, alike by his duty and 
his nature. 

Never was a more stupid maxim, than that common one, 
that nil admirari is the proper motto of a philosopher. To 
preserve a freshness, a juvenile sensibility of the heart for 
the admiration of whatever is new, beautiful and striking, for 
all the pleasures of taste and the understanding, seems 
to me the true secret of the highest wisdom. Who can 
fail to be inspired with disgust at witnessing the common spec- 
tacle of cognoscentiy men of virtii^ travelled fools, who have 
been everywhere, and seen everything j and by the contemp- 
tuous sneer, with which they effect to see,'hear, feel and speak 
of all, that passes under their present observation, instruct 
you, that they are too wise, and of a taste too refined, to be 
pleased Avith what satisfies untravelled people. For my part, 
when I hear them boast of the music, paintings and architect- 
ure of continental Europe, and England, as though all the sour- 
ces of beauty were there, I can only say, that nature is always 
at hand, to mock at all the puny eflTorts of art ; that she de- 
lights to mould living faces and forms in remote country cot- 
tages, that no heau ideal can reach ; that the songs of the birds, 
t^at return from other climes to their forsaken groves with 
the first sunny days of spring constitute a music richer to the 
heart, than the most fashionable opera ; and that a pure spring 
landscape is a picture a thousand times more splendid, than any 
that ever adorned the walls of the Louvre. He, who pre- 



285 



serves, to his utmost age, his youthful sensibility of heart, and 
who is willing to be pleased with whatever will impart inno- 
cent pleasure, Avill find innumerable and never failing occa- 
sions to give his heart up to the full impulses of joy. 

' I pity,' says Sterne, 'the man, who can travel from Dan to 
Beersheba, and cry 'tis all barren ; and yet so it is ; and so 
i^ all the world, to him who Avill not cultivate the fruits it offers. 
I declare said I, clapping my hands cheerly together, that 
were I in a desert, I would find in it the wherewith to call 
forth my aflfections. If I could not do better, I would fasten 
them on some sweet myrtle, or seek some melancholy cypress, 
to connect myself to. I would court its shade, and greet 
it kindly for its protection ; I would cut my name upon 
it, and swear, it was the loveliest tree in the desert. If 
its leaves withered, I would teach myself to mourn ; and 
when they rejoiced, I would rejoice with them.' 

Note 58, page 166. 

I consider it no unimportant part of the process of prolong- 
ing our earthly sojourn, to lay in, if I may so speak, as great a 
stocky as possible, of pleasant remembrances. I appeal to 
the experience of every one, if the sudden recollection of a 
foolish thing that we have said, or done, returning upon us af- 
ter a lapse of years, has not brought back w^ith the convulsive 
shudder of shame, a long train of associated remembrances, 
which have carried us back whole days upon the scene ? How 
long seem the periods, in which these incidents occurred ! 
Pleasant recollections are no less efficient, in prolonging the 
periods, in which they occurred, adding their duration to the 
sum of the fugitive existence that is stealing from us. 

For myself I can confidently affirm, that I have long since 
learned to find my purest and most abiding satisfactions in 
the memory of the past. I repeat all its happier passages and 
incidents. I recall the bright days, verdant landscapes, loved 
persons, and joyous sensations from their shadowy mansions. 
I renew my youthful sports ; and watch for the trout along the 



286 



flush spring brooks. I seat myself again on the sunny banks 
of the pleasant spots of my career. I would be glad to con- 
vey some idea of the vivid pleasure,! experience after a lapse 
of forty winters, from the deeply impressed remembrance of 
one beautiful spring morning, after a long and severe win- 
ter, when I was still a school-boy. The vast masses of snow 
were beginning to melt. The birds of prey, shut up in their 
retreats during the bitter winter, sailed forth in the mild clear 
blue. The blue bird whistled ; and my heart expanded with 
joy and delight unknown, in the same degree, before or since. 
The place where these thoughts, comprising my youthful an- 
ticipations, hopes and visions occurred, will never be obliterat- 
ed from my mind, while memory holds her seat. I have a 
thousand such treasured recollections, with Avhich I can at any 
time, and to a certain extent, cheer pain, sorrow and decay. 
These are enjoyments stored beyond the reach of fortune, 
which we can prolong, and renew at pleasure. 

Is there not practical wisdom, in commencing every day 
with the steady effort, to make as much of it, as if it were to 
be our whole existence. If we have duties to perform, in 
themselves severe and laborious, we may inquire, if there be 
not some way, by which to invest them with pleasant associa- 
tions ? A man may find amusement in his free thoughts, while 
following his plough upon the hill side ; in digging up the words 
for a dictionary, or in copying out a brief. He may train him- 
self, by an inefficient and shrinking spirit, to recoil from these 
tasks, as insupportable burdens. How many men find their 
pleasure, in what would be the positive horror and torment of 
the indolent! How weak the spirit, and how silly the vanity 
which we display, in ever renewing narrations of our little per- 
sonal troubles, pains and misfortunes ! If we would have the 
discretion to measure the sympathy, which we may expect 
from others, in such discourses, by that, which we are con- 
scious of feeling for theirs of the same character, it would go 
far to teach us the folly of that querulous spirit, which doles 
forth the story of sufferings and sorrows, as though the nar- 
rator were the only sufferer, and were entitled to a monopoly 
of all the passing pity. 



287 



Note 59, page 169 . 

This compendium of the moral acquirements, entering into 
the character of an accomplished philosopher, I consider one 
of the happiest, which any book of morals can show. Here 
is an ample volume of ethics, on a page. How differently would 
a modern auto-biographer have announced the same facts ! In 
what rounded periods and circuitous expressions would he 
have striven to convey the same ideas, to impress the reader, 
that his modesty forbade the frank personality of the Roman 
philosopher. The whole spirit of this admirable summary 
would have evaporated in barren generalities. What we ad- 
mire in the ancients is their noble simplicity and directness, 
which disdains the vanity of circumlocution, that wishes to 
hide itself under the semblance of modesty. 

It seems to me, that it would not be amiss for the clergy of 
the day to seek the models of their homilies and sermons in 
such a manner of declaring moral truth. Abstract ethical de- 
clamation, and all the scholastic acquirements and the limcB 
labor are but poor substitutes for that searching directness, 
which, avoiding abstractions and generalities, appeals at once 
to the personal consciousness. I allow, that I should love to 
hear such sermons, as that of Dr Primrose to his fellow pri- 
soners, in the Vicar of Wakefield. There is no eloquence, 
there can be none, except in simple and direct appeals to 
thought and conscience. 

Note 60, pnge 171. 

Various writers of splendid' genius have tasked their 
imagination, to present us with the results of endowing a per- 
son with immortality on earth. Such a character has been 
delineated with great power by Godwin, in his St Leon ; and 
by Croly in the story of Salathiel, or the Wandering Jew. It 
is an instructive labor, to record the wanderings, changes, 
weariness, abandonment, and final despair of a wretch cursed 



288 



with immortality ; and by the circumstance rendered a mon- 
ster, out of relation with human beings ; and cut off from all 
real sympathy with his mortal kind. It is questionable, 
whether these writers, or any others who have drawn similar 
pictures, have formed adequate conceptions, of what would be 
the actual result of an earthly immortality. The view of the 
author before me seems just. I can easily imagine the im- 
mortal delivered from earthly sorrows. But, when I contem- 
plate him divested of the hopes, fears, affections and sympa- 
thies, which trace their origin to our common mortal nature, 
I cannot imagine the affections, that are to replace these. 

I can conceive none other, than a being, who would be- 
come drowsy at sixty, and sleepy at a hundred. All beyond 
presents to me a lethargy of almost unconscious existence, 
from which my fancy can devise no effort of sufficient energy 
to arouse him. In fact, it is sufficient, that nature has award- 
ed, in her universal decree, that man should not be out of 
analogy and relation with the rest of nature ; to convince us, 
that the decision involves our best interest. The more our 
views of nature enlarge, the more M^e become conscious, that 
she has arranged all her lav.'s with such perfect wisdom, that 
if we could reverse any of them, we should do it at the expense 
of our own happiness. 

Of all pictures of men, rendered immortal upon earth, the 
roost forcible, brief and revolting, is that of Swift. 'After this 
preface, he gave me a particular account of the Struldbrugs 
among them. He said, they commonly acted like mortals, 
till about thirty years old ; after which they grew melancholy 
and dejected, increasing in both till they came to fourscore. 
This he learned from their own confession ; for otherwise, 
there not being more than two or three of that species born 
in an age, they were too few to form a general observation 
by. When they come to fourscore years, which is reckoned 
the extremity of living in this country, they had not only all 
the follies and infirmities of other men, but many more, which 
arose from the dreadful prospect of never dying. They were 
not only opinionative, covetous, peevish, morose, vain, talka- 



289 



tlve, but incapable of friendship, and dead to all natural 
affection, which never descended below their grandchildren. 
Envy and their impotent desires are their prevailing passions. 
But those objects, against which their envy seems particularly 
directed, are the vices of the younger sort, and the death of 
the old. By reflecting on the former, they find themselves 
cut off from all possibility of pleasure ; and whenever they 
see a funeral, they lament, and repine, that others have gone 
to a harbor of rest, at which they can never hope to arrive. 
They have no remembrance of anything, but what they learn- 
ed, and observed in their youth and middle age, and even 
that is very imperfect ; and for the truth or particulars of 
any fact, it is safer to depend on common tradition, than their 
best recollection. The least miserable among them, are 
those, who turn to dotage, and entirely lose their memories. 
These meet with more pity and assistance, because they want 
many bad qualities, which abound in others. 

' If a Struldbrug happen to marry one of his kind, the mar- 
riage is dissolved of course, by the courtesy of the kingdom, 
as soon as the younger of the two comes to be fourscore ; for 
the law thinks it a reasonable indulgence, that those, who are 
condemned, Avithout any fault of their own, to a perpetual 
continuance in the world, should not have their misery doubled 
by the load of a wife. As soon as they have completed the 
term of eighty years, they are considered dead in law. At 
ninety they lose their teeth and hair, and have no distinction 
of taste, but eat and drink whatever they can get, without 
relish or appetite. The diseases they were subject to, still 
continue without increasing, or diminishing. In talking, they 
forget the common appellations of things, and the names of 
persons, even of those, who are their nearest friends and re- 
lations. For the same reason, they can never amuse them- 
selves with reading, because their memory will not serve to 
carry them from the beginning of a sentence to the end ; and 
by this defect they are deprived of the only entertainment 
whereof they might be capable. 

^•They were the most mortifying sight I ever beheld, and 
25 



290 



the women more horrible than the men. Besides the usual 
deformities in extreme old age, they acquired an additional 
ghastliness, in proportion to their number of years, which is 
not to be described ; and among half a dozen, I soon distin- 
guished who was the oldest, although there was not above a 
century or two between them. 

'The reader will easily believe, from what I have heard 
and seen, that my keen appetite for perpetuity and life was 
much abated. I grew heartily ashamed of the pleasing visions 
I had formed, and thought no tyrant could invent a death into 
which I would not run with pleasure, from such a life. The 
king heard all that had passed between me and my friends 
upon this occasion, and rallied me very pleasantly, wishing I 
could send a couple of Struldbrugs to my own country, to 
arm our people against the fear of death.' 

Note 61, page 171. 

Fear, absolutely useless, gratuitous fear, probably consti- 
tutes much the largest -proportion of the whole mass of hu- 
man misery ; and of this proportion the fear of death is the 
principal part. There are but very few people who, in exam- 
ining the feeling of revulsion and horror, most constantly 
present to their minds, will not find it to be the dread of 
death. The whole observation, which I have made upon 
human nature, has only enlightened me the more as to the 
universality and extent of the influence of this evil. I see it 
infusing bitterness into the bosoms of the young, before they 
are as yet capable of reflection ; and ceasing not to inspire 
its terrors into the heart, which has experienced the sorrows 
of fourscore winters. I see little diff'erence in the alarm 
with which it darkens the mind of the heir, elate with youthful 
hope, and the galley slave — those apparently the most happy, 
and the tenants of penitentiaries and lazar-houses. All 
cling alike convulsively to life, and shudder at the thought of 
death. 

Part, and perhaps the greater part, of tliis fear is a sad 



291 



heritage, which has been transmitted down to us, an accu- 
mulating fund of sorrow, for a hundred generations. I have 
stated my conviction in another place, that our education, re 
ligious ceremonies, domestic manners, in short, all the influ- 
ences of the present institutions of society tend to increase 
this evil. I am well aware, at the same time, that the num- 
ber of those, who will admit it to be an evil, is but small. 
Most view it as it has been considered in all christian coun- 
tries, from time immemorial, as an instrument in the hand of 
God and his servants, to awe, and restrain the mind, recall 
it from illusions and vanities, and reduce it to the seriousness 
and obedience of religion. The broad declamation of the 
pulpit for effect, revolting representations of hell-torment 
and the vindictive justice of God, have passed with a readier 
tolerance, under a kind of tacit allowance, that if the means 
were unworthy, the proposed end was such as would sancti- 
fy them. It is almost unnecessary to remark, that all my 
hope of producing any useful impression is with the small, 
but growing number, (in the next age, I trust, it will be a 
majority) who hold this whole doctrine in utter unbelief ; 
who have no faith in amendment and conversion, that 
grows out of the base and servile principle of fear ; and least 
of all the fear of death ; who believe that a great reform, a 
thorough amelioration of our species, will never be effected, 
until it is made a radical principle of our whole discipline, 
and all our social institutions, to bring this servile passion 
completely under the control of our reason. With these, it is 
a deep and fxxed conviction, that every thing base, degrading 
and destructive of intellect and improvement, readily asso- 
ciates with fear ; and that the basis of true religion, generous 
conception, high thoughts and really noble character, is firmly 
laid in a young mind, when trained to become as destitute 
of fear, as if it were conscious of being a sinless angel, 
above the reach of pain or death. 

It would be to no purpose for me to pause in this place, to 
obviate the strictures of those who will denounce this doc- 
trine, by quoting from the scriptures the frenuent inculcati'or.g 



292 



of the fear of the Lord, and the Apostle's declaration, that 
by the terrors of the Lord we persuade men. The true and 
religious fear, inculcated in the scriptures, not only has no 
relation to the passion 1 am discussing, but cannot exist, any 
more than the other requisite traits of religious character, in 
a bosom swayed by the grovelling and selfish passion of ser- 
vile fear. 

That nature has implanted in our bosoms an instinctive 
dread of death, I readily admit. But fear, as a factitious and 
unnatural addition to the true instincts of human nature, has 
been so accumulated by rolling down through a hundred 
generations, that we are in no condition to know the de- 
gree, in which nature intended we should possess it. We 
have innumerable base propensities, which we charge upon 
nature, that are, in fact, no more, than the guilty heritage, 
bequeathed us by our ancestors. Nature could have implant- 
ed DO higher degree of instinctive dread of death, than just 
what was requisite, to preserve the race from prodigal waste, 
or rash exposure of a gift, which, once lost, is irretrievable. 
If nature has inwrought in any constitution one particle of 
fear, beyond what was required for this result, she has, as in 
all other excessive endowments, granted reason and judg- 
ment, to regulate, and reduce it to its due subordination. 

Will not religion achieve the great triumph of casting out 
the base principle of fear ? I would be the last to deny, or 
undervalue the trophies of true religion. I have no doubt 
that religion has, in innumerable instances, extracted the pain 
and poison from the sting of death. More than this, it would 
unquestionably produce this triumph in every case, if every 
individual were completely under the influence of the true 
principle. It would attain this end by processes and disci- 
pline exactly concurrent, if not similar, with those I am about 
to propose. But it is a lamentable fact, that very few are 
under the influence of true religion. Of those, whom chari- 
ty deems most sincerely pious, under all professions and 
forms, the far greater number exhibit, on the bed of dan- 
gerous sickness, the same fear of death with the rest. We 



293 



consider this a generally conceded fact ; for, among all but 
the most extravagant sects, death-bed terror, or triumph has 
ceased to be considered a test of the personal religion of the 
deceased. Even in the cases of enthusiastic triumph in the 
last moments, which we have all witnessed, and which are 
justly so soothing to the survivors, it would often be difficult 
to determine the respective influence of laudanum, and partial 
insanity doing its last work upon the nervous system. 

Be this as it may, the triumph over the fear of death, which 
I would inculcate, should not be tested by the equivocal de- 
portment of the patient, in the near view of death ; but by 
his own joyous consciousness of deliverance from this tor- 
menting thraldom and bondage, during his whole life. Let 
fear and horror crowd what bitterness they may into the last 
few hours, it can bear but little proportion to the long agony 
of a whole life, passed in bondage through fear of death. To 
produce the desired triumph, the highest training of philoso- 
phy should concur with the paternal spirit and the immortal 
hopes of the gospel : and a calm, reasoning, unboasting fear- 
lessness of death should enable us to taste all the little of 
pure and innocent joy, that may be found between the cradle 
and the grave — as unmolested, as unsprinkled Avith this fear, 
as if the destroyer were not among the works of God. 

How may this result be obtained ? How may a genera- 
tion be so trained as to lose not a particle of enjoyment, nor 
be influenced to one unworthy act, by the fear of death ? 
To answer these questions, in the requisite detail of illustra- 
tion, would require volumes. It might, perhaps, best be 
done by selecting a single child as an example ; and by de- 
veloping, at every advancing step, the process of his training ; 
pointing out every instance, in which it would be necessary 
to withdraw him from the influence of the present systems 
of discipline ; in which, in a word, his whole education should 
be conducted with a preponderant purpose, among other 
desirable results, to render him perfectly fearless of death. 
It is hoped that some one of those, who believe this a chief 
desideratum in the reformation and improvement of the 
25^ 



294 



present system of education, ^vill take this great point in 
hand ; and in this way indicate to the age the modes of dis- 
cipline, through which this result may be expected. It is 
obvious, that a much severer discipline would be required for 
the first generation so trained, than for the second ; who, wich 
less transmitted cowardice than their parents, would perpet- 
uate a constantly improving moral constitution to the genera- 
tions to come. My present plan admits only a brief sum- 
mary of motives and arguments, commonly adduced, as cal- 
culated to diminish, regulate, and subdue the fear of death. 
It is evident, that these motives and arguments are predicated 
upon present opinions, and such as may be supposed capable 
of acting upon the existing generation, enduring the heredi- 
tary and inculcated bondage of this pission. 

1. The terrific and undefinable images of horror, that imagi- 
nation affixes to the term death, are founded in an entire mis- 
conception. The word is the sign of no positive idea what- 
ever. It conjures up a shadowy horror to the mind, finely 
delineated, as a poetic personage, by Milion ; and implies 
some agony that is supposed to lie between the limits of ex- 
istence and non-existence, or existence in another form» 
This is simple illusion. So long as we fee], death is not — and 
when we cease to feel, or commence feeling in a changed 
form, death has been : — fuit mors. So that the term imports a 
mere phantom of the imagination. In the words of Droz, ' it 
is not yet ; or it is past.' If one can arrest \hepunctum stans^ 
and the actual sensation, where waking consciousness ter- 
minates, and sleep commences, he can tell us, what death is. 
Every one is conscious of having passed through this change ; 
but no one can give any account, Avhat were his sensations in 
the dividing moment of interval between wakefulness and 
sleep. 

2. Imagination is allowed to settle all the circumstances, and 
form all the associations belonging to the supposed agony of 
this event. It is one of the few important incidents in life, 
upon which reason is never allowed to fix a calm and severe 
scrutiny. It has been seen in a light, too sacred and terri- 



295 



ble, to permit such a lustration. 'It is dreadful,' says com- 
mon apprehension, ' for it is the breaking up the long and 
tender partnership, and producing a separation between the 
body and the soul — dreadful, because it is the wages of sin, and 
is appointed to be a perpetual memorial of the righteous dis- 
pleasure of God in view of sin;' 'dreadful,' say others, who 
most unphilosophically believe that man was not originally 
intended to be mortal, ' because a violence upon nature ; 
dreadful, because a departure of the spirit from the regions 
of the living, and the light of the sun, into an unknown and 
eternal condition. Suns will revolve, moons wax and wane, 
years, revolutions, ages, counted by all the particles of mist 
in the sea, will elapse, but the place, whence the spirit is gone, 
will never know it more.' ' It is terrible,' says common ap- 
prehension, ' for it is often preceded and accompanied by 
spasm, and convulsive struggle.' The psalmody, which we 
sing in church, speaks of the ghastly paleness, the chill sweat, 
and the mortal coldness, circumstances all, which, seen in other 
associations, would assume no aspect of peculiar terror. 

Then, too, the attendants in the sick room with a look of 
horror inspect the extremities of the patient, and petrify 
bystanders with the terrible words, ' he is struck with death,' 
as though the grisly phantom king of the poet's song had in- 
visibly glided in, and, with his icy sceptre, given his victim 
the blow of mortal destiny. Who knoAvs not that, though 
there are usually mortal symptoms, which enable an experi- 
enced eye to foresee approaching dissolution, the term 
death-struck imports nothing but the weakest vulgar preju- 
dice, a prejudice under the influence of which millions have 
been suffered to expire, that might have been roused ! Innu- 
merable persons, pronounced to be in that situation, have ac- 
tually recovered; and no moment, in the ordinary forms of 
disease, can with any certainty be pronounced beyond hope 
and the chances of aid, but that which succeeds the last sigh. 
Thus every thought of the living, and every aspect of the dy- 
ing, by a wayward ingenuity, heightens the imagined horror 
of the event. 



296 



Then there are conversations and hymns and funeral odes 
and Night Thoughts, which speak of the coldness, silence 
and eternal desolation of the grave ; as though the uncon- 
scious sleeper felt the chill of the superincumbent clay, the 
darkness of his narrow house or this terrible isolation from the 
living. The pale and peaceful corse is contemplated with a 
look of horror. Two, of stout heart and tried friendship, abide 
near the kneaded clod, until the living are relieved from their 
ghostly terrors, by its deposition out of their sight in the nar- 
row house. The family, the children, the friends alike show- 
ing the creeping horror, glide quick and silently on tiptoe 
through the apartment, where the sleeper lies. The first 
nightfall after the disease is one of peculiar and unmitigated 
horror. The family, however disinclined to union before, this 
evening unite, Avith that impress on their countenances, which 
words reach not. Now return to their thoughts the nursery 
tales, the thrilling narratives of haunted houses and wander- 
ing ghosts ; and if the minister comes among them, it is pro- 
bably to evoke before their imaginations condemned spirits 
doomed to eternal sufferings, quenchless flames, groans with- 
out respite, and all the ineffable and eternal torments, that 
the clerical vocabulary of centuries has accumulated. 

Need we wonder, that in a christian country, and among 
families of the best training, such impressions have become so 
universal, that they, who would be reputed brave, blazon their 
courage, by affirming their readiness to sleep in a cemetery, 
or the funeral vault of a church ! It requires no extraordinary 
effort, and nothing more than the simple triumph of reason 
among the faculties, to enable any man, to sleep alone in a 
charnel house with as little dread, as in the apartment of an 
inn, so that the places were alike in comfort and salubrity. 
It does not require us to be wise, or courageous ; but simply 
not cowards and fools, to feel as little horror in the view of 
corses, as statues of plaster or marble. One of the most ter- 
- rible ideas of death, after all, is, that we shall thus, immedi- 
ately upon our decease, inflict this shrinking revulsion of ter- 
ror upon all, who look at our remains. 



297 



The view, which reason takes of the sick and dying bed is, 
that, in the far greater number of mortal cases, the transition 
from life to death is as imperceptible, as the progress of the 
sun and the seasons. One faculty dies after another. The 
victim has received the three warnings unconsciously. Ordi- 
narily, a person may be said to have paid a third part of his 
tribute of mortality at fortyfive ; half at fiftyfive ; and the 
whole at three score and ten. 

When acute and severe sickness assails the patient, he has 
passed through what may be called the agony of death at 
a very early period of his disease. His chief suffeiing is 
past, as soon the irritability and the vigorous powers of life 
have been broken down. When the disorder assumes the 
typhoid and insensible form, the dull sleep, that precedes the 
final rest of the tomb, is already creeping upon him ; and se- 
vere suffering is precluded. If there are convulsions after 
this, as often happens, they are seldom more than spasmodic 
movements, impressed by the nervous action upon the ten- 
dons, more terrible to the beholder, than the sufferer ; differ- 
ing little from those starts and struggles, with which many 
persons in high health commence sleeping and waking. He 
who has experienced the sensation of fainting, and, still more, 
of an epileptic fit, has suffered, I am ready to believe, all that 
there is in dying. 

3. Reason, calmly surveying the case of the dying person 
himself, sees many alleviations, of which imagination, sketch- 
ing underthe influence of the dread of death, takes no account. 
He finds himself, in this new predicament, the absorbing ob- 
ject of all interests and all solicitude and affection. It is not in 
human nature, that this should not call up complacent emotions 
and slumbering affections from their secret cells. The sub- 
sequent progress towards the last moment brings an imper- 
ceptibly increasing insensibility, manifested by drowsiness and 
sleep. Of those, who preserve the exercise of their facul- 
ties entire to the last, many instances are recorded of persons, 
who had shown the most unmanly dread of death in their 
health, that have met dissolution with the calmness of perfect 



298 



self-possession. Of the rest, the greater number die with 
little more apparent pain and struggle, than accompany the 
act of sleeping. The greater freshness, vigor and nervous 
irritability of young people and children cause that most of 
the exceptions are of this description. In a great number of 
cases, which I have witnessed, I have paused in doubt, wheth- 
er the person had yielded his last sigh, or not, after he had ac- 
tually deceased. To soften the last infliction, nature almost 
invariably veils it under a low delirium, or absolute uncon- 
sciousness. 

4. It is impossible to imagine a more obvious and unquestion- 
able principle of philosophy, than that every reasoning faculty 
of our nature must declare to us, loudly and unequivocally, 
and with an influence as strong as reason can command, that 
it is wisdom, nay, the dictate of the least portion of common 
sense, to dread, to resist, to repine, to groan, as little as possi- 
ble, in view of an endurance absolutely inevitable. If it be 
hard to sustain when met with a fearless, resigned and un- 
murmuring spirit, it must certainly be still harder, when we 
are obliged to bend our necks to it with the excruciating addi- 
tion of shrinking fear, dreadful anticipation and ineffectual 
struggles to evade it, and with murmurs and groans, at finding 
the inutility of these efforts. Innumerable examples prove to 
us, that nature has kindly endowed us with reason and men- 
tal vigor to such an extent, that, under the influence of right 
motive and training, no possible form of suffering can be 
presented, over which this power may not manifest, and has 
not manifested a complete triumph. 

Of these innumerable examples, it is only necessary to 
cite those of the martyrs, of all forms of religion. These 
prove farther, that this undaunted self-possession, in every 
conceivable shape and degree of agony, was not the result of 
a rare and peculiar temperament, a want of sensibility, or the 
possession of uncommon physical courage ; that it was not be- 
cause there Avas no perception of danger, or susceptibility of 
pain ; this magnanimity, this impassibility to fear and pain 
and death has been exhibited in nearly equal degrees by peo- 



299 



pie of every age, each sex and all conditions. Let the pro- 
per motive be supplied, let the martyr have had the common 
influence of the training- of his faith, and the consequence 
failed not. All the shades and varieties of natural and mental 
difference of character were noted in the deportment of the 
sufferers. But they were alike in the stern proof of a courage, 
which defied death. The fact is proved by them, as strongly 
as moral fact can be proved, that the mind of every individual 
might find in itself native self-possession and vigor, to enable 
it to display an entire ascendency over fear, pain and death. 
Nor does this fact rest solely for support on the history of 
martyrs, or sufferers at an Auto dafe, or by torture in any of 
its forms. We could find examples of it in every department 
of history, and every view of human character. The red men 
of our wilderness, as we have elsewhere seen, are still more 
astonishing illustrations of this fact — I say astonishing, 
because the timid and effeminate white man shivers, and 
scarcely credits his senses, as he sees the young Indian 
warrior smoking his pipe, singing his songs, boasting of his 
victories and uttering his menaces, when enveloped in a slow 
fire, apparently as unmoved, as reckless and unconscious of 
pain, as if sitting at his ease in his own cabin. All, that has 
been found necessary, by this strange people, to procure this 
heroism, is, that the children, from boyhood, should be con- 
stantly under a discipline, every part and every step of which 
tends directly to shame and contempt at the least manifesta- 
tion of cowardice, in view of any danger, or of a shrinking con- 
sciousness of pain in the endurance of any suffering. The 
males, so trained, never fail to evidence the fruit of their dis- 
cipline. Sentenced to death, they almost invariably scorn to 
fly from their sentence, when escape is in their power. If in 
debt, they desire a reprieve, that they may hunt, until their 
debts are paid. They then voluntarily return, and surrender 
themselves to the executioner. Nothing is more common 
than for a friend to propose to suffer for his friend, a parent 
for a child, or a child for a parent. When the sufferer re- 
ceives the blow, there is an unblenching look, which mani- 



300 



fests the presence of the same spirit, that smokes with apparent 
unconcern amidst the crackling flames. 

A proof, that this is the fruit of training, and not of native 
insensibility, as others have thought, and as I formerly thought 
myself, is that this contempt of pain and death is considered 
a desirable trait only in the males. To fly, like a woman, like 
her to laugh, and weep, and groan, are expressions of contempt, 
which they apply to their enemies with ineffable scorn. The 
females, almost excluded from witnessing the process of Spar- 
tan discipline, by which the males acquire their mental har- 
dihood, partake not of the fruits of it, and with some few ex- 
ceptions, are shrinking and timid, like the children of civiliza- 
tion. 

I know, that there will not be wanting those, who will con- 
demn alike the training and the heroism, as harsh, savage, un- 
feeling, stoical and unworthy to be admitted, as an adjunct to 
civilization. But no one will offer to deny, that the primitive 
Christian, put in conflict with a hungry lion, that Rogers at 
the Smithfield stake, that the young captive warrior, exulting, 
and chanting his songs while enduring the bitterest agonies 
that man can inflict, in the serene and sublime triumph of 
mind over matter, and spirit over the body, is the most im- 
posing spectacle we can witness, the clearest proof we 
can contemplate, that we have that within us which is not 
all of clay, nor all mortal ; or doubt, that these persons en- 
dure infinitely less physical pain, in consequence of their 
heroic self-possession, than they would have suffered, had they 
met theii' torture in paroxysms of terror, shrinking and self- 
abandonment. 

However we may reason, however we may decry these 
views, as savage, impracticable, unnatural and undesirable, 
the fact is, that we all feel alike upon this subject. The 
thousands in a Roman amphitheatre only evinced a trait, 
that belongs to our common nature, when they instantly, 
and without consulting each other, gave the signal to save 
that gladiator, who most clearly manifested cool self-possession 



301 



and contempt of death. After witnessing the execution of a 
criminal, who shows courage, the spectators go away describ- 
ing, with animated gesture, and in terms of admiration, the 
fearlessness of the fellow the moment before his death. We 
all speak with unmingled satisfaction of the circumstance, 
in the death of our friends, that they departed in the con- 
scious dignity of self-possession and hope. All readers are 
moved with one sensation, as they read the record of the no- 
ble trait in the character of CaBsar, gracefully folding him- 
self in his mantle, after he had received so many mortal thrusts. 
Few of us hear unmoved of the old English patriot, who re- 
quested the executioner to support him up the steps to the 
scaffold, adding that he would shift for himself to get down ; or 
of the other, who cried, as he stooped his head to the block, 
dulce et decorum est pro patria mori I If I recollect, it is Silli- 
man, who gives the affecting notice of the last hours of the 
duke of Richmond, the late governor general of Canada. In- 
vested with all conceivable circumstances to render life de- 
sirable, he was bitten by a favorite dog in a rabid state ; and 
died, in the most excruciating tortures, of the terrible hydro- 
phobia. When the horrible paroxysm was felt by him to be 
approaching, he was accustomed to nerve his sinking cour- 
age by these ^ords; ' Henry, remember, that none of your 
ancestors were cowards.' I give the trait from recollection, 
but have heard substantially the same account from other 
sources. This is the secret of the perverse general admira- 
tion of warriors, and heroes, and great generals. It is this 
principle in its blindness, which finds a niche of favor in so 
many hearts for duellists. In a word, intrepidity, deny it who 
may, is the trait which finds more universal favor with hu- 
man nature in general than any other. Why ? Because we 
are weak and frail beings, exposed to innumerable pains 
and dangers ; and the quality we most frequently need, is 
courage. Without it life is a living death, a long agony of 
fear. With it, we die but once, enduring at the most but 
a momentary pang, never anticipated, never embittering a 
moment in advance with imaginary suffering, 
26 



302 



We have no hesitation in affirming-, that it would be no more 
difficult to educate the coming generation of civilized people 
to this spirit, than it is to impart it to the whole race of 
males among the red men. However inferior we may count 
these people, in comparison with ourselves in other respects, 
they have at least one manifest advantage over us ; they nev- 
er torment themselves, because they know they must die. 

But we are told that the actual possession of this spirit would 
produce such a recklessness of life, that the great ends of 
Providence would be defeated ; and people would expose 
themselves to death with so little concern, that the race would 
waste away and become extinct. We never need combat a 
theory, an abstract opinion, when the case can be settled by a 
fact. Is it so v»'ith the warriors of the red men? On the con- 
trary, can another people be found so wary, so adroit to evade, 
or resist danger, so fertile in expedients to save life ? The 
coward of their number meets the death he would fly ; and 
the intrepid warrior puts forth all the resources of his in- 
stinctive sagacity, ail his keen and practised discernment, 
to discover the best means of evasion. If he must 
meet that death, which his skill cannot evade, nor his 
powers resist, he instantly settles down upon the resource 
of his invincible heroism of endurance. 

In fact, one of the direct fruits of the intrepidity we would 
wish to see universal, is, that it will give its possessor allpos. 
sible chances for preserving health and life. It saves him 
from the influence of fear, a passion among the most debilita- 
ting, and adverse to life, of any to which our nature is sub- 
ject. Braced by his courage, he passes untouched amidst a 
contagious epidemic, to which the timid and apprehensive na- 
ture falls a victim. In danger it gives him coolness and self- 
command, to discover, and avail himself of all his chances of 
wise resistance, or probable escape. In sickness, he has all 
the aids to recover, which nature allows, in being delivered 
from the most dangerous symptom in innumerable maladies, 
the debilitating persuasion of the patient, that he shall not 
rise from his sickness. In a word, the direct reverse of the 



30^ 



charge is the fact. The wise and enlightened fearlessness, 
which I consider it so important to acquire, is in every Avay as 
much the preserver of life, as it is indispensable to happiness ; 
as cowardice proverbially runs in the face of the hideous mon- 
ster that it creates. 

5. The fact, that an evil is felt to be alleviated, which is 
shared in common with all around us, has been generally re- 
cognised, though this perverted sympathy has been traced to 
the basest selfishness, by a humiliating analysis of our nature, 
which I have neither space nor inclination to develope. We 
all know, that the same person, who is most beneficent, most 
active in his benevolence, and large in his wishes to do good, 
would shrink from a great calamity, which he saw himself destin- 
ed to encounter, for the first and the last among his whole race. 
But inform him, that by an impartial award he shares it in com- 
mon with all his kind, and you reconcile him at once to his 
lot. Whether the spirit of his resignation in this case be 
pure, or polluted in its origin, it is not my present purpose to 
inquire. It is sufficient to be assured, that there is such a 
feeling deeply inherent in human nature. The suffering pa- 
tient, as he lays himself down to part from all friends, to be 
severed from all ties, to see the green earth, the bright sun, 
and the visible heavens no more, and to be conscious, that the 
everlasting circle of ages will continue its revolutions without 
ever bringing him back to the forsaken scene, cannot repine, 
that he has been put upon this bitter trial alone. He must be 
deeply conscious, view it in what aspect he may, that it pre- 
sents no new harshness nor horror to him. Of all the countless 
millions, that have passed away, and been replaced by others, 
like the vernal leaves, death has stood before every solitary 
individual of the mighty mass, the same phantom king of ter- 
rors. Each has contemplated the same inexorable, irreversi- 
ble award, been held in the same suspense of hopes, and fears, 
and compelled to endure the same struggles. Looking upon 
the immense mortal drama of ages, the actors seem slowly and 
imperceptibly to enter, and depart from the scene. But in the 
lapse of one short age, the hopes, fears, loves and hatrecJs of 



304 



all the countless millioDS have vanished, to be replaced by 
those of another generation. The heart swells at the recol- 
lection how much each of these mortals must have endured, 
in this stern and inevitable encounter, as measured by our own 
suffering in the same case. It is only necessary for the pa- 
tient to extend his vision a few years in advance of his own 
decease; and his friends, his children, his visitants, all that 
surround him, will in their turn recline on the same bed. 
Who cannot feel the palpable folly of repining at an evil 
shared with all, that have been, are, or will be ! 

' Not to thy eternal resting place. 
Shalt thou retire alone : * ^ 

* * Thou shalt lie down 
With patiiaichs of the infant world, with kings, 
The powerful of the earth, the wise, the good. 
Fair forms and hoary seers of ages past, 
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills, 
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun ; the vales 
Stretching in pensive quietness between; 
The venerable woods, rivers, that move 
In majesty, and the complaining brooks, 
That make the meadowsgreen, and, poured round all, 
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, 
Are but the solemn decorations all 
Of the great tomb of man.' 

6. Philosophers and moralists will readily admit, that the 
only easy and adequate remedy for the fear of death is the 
hope of immortality. On the other hand, they, whose voca- 
tion it is to question and decry the aids, which reason and 
philosophy offer in the case, as sullen, cold, stoical, will not 
deny, that ' innumerable ' examples have been offered in 
all countries, and in all time, of men, who, in virtue of no 
higher discipline than that of reason and philosophy, have 
met death with such unshrinking and invincible firmness, as 
could hardly have been rendered more illustrious by any ad- 
ditional motives. They have shown, beyond all question, 
that nature has furnished us with a power of resist- 



305 



ance, which, when rightly called forth, enables us to triumph 
over fear and death. The pagans of ancient story, the un- 
believing of christian lands, the red men of our forests, offer 
us demonstrations to any extent. I am aware, in what places 
this simplest of all truths is weekly denied. Those, for 
whom I write, are of the number who exact the truth ; and I 
have no fear to declare it ; nor would I contend for a mo- 
ment with such as deny this fact. 

But I am not the less sensible, that the triumph, in these 
cases, is bitter and painful. It can only be obtained by a vio- 
lence done to instinctive nature, connected with innumerable 
revulsions and horrors, and to all those ineffable clingings to 
earth, and shrinkings from the first step into the unknown 
land, that are partly the heritage of nature, and partly the result 
of the concurrent influence of all our institutions. It is a vio. 
lence to all the passions, affections, hopes and fears fostered 
by the earth. But the victory has been wrought, and can be 
wrought, even though the bosom, in which it is wrougiit be- 
come as of iron. 

But the same triumph is won by the hope of immortality, by 
a process, simple, easy, natural, in entire consonance with the 
most tender affections and lively sympathies of flesh and 
blood. We lie down in pain and agony, with a spirit of easy 
endurance, if we have a confident persuasion that, during the 
night, we shall have shaken off the cause of our sufferings, 
and shall rise to renewed health and freshness in the morning. 
Death can bring little terror to him, who believes that its 
darkness will instantly be replaced by the light of another 
scene : and that the separation from friends in the visible 
land, is only rejoining the more numerous group, who have 
already become citizens of the invisible country. 

To what extent am I the subject of this hope myself; and 
whence do I derive my belief? These are questions which 
affection will ask ; and the answers, if devoid of interest noWy 
will not be so when the memory of things that were shall 
come over the mind of the reader like a cloud, and when read 
as the thoughts of one, who, during his whole sojourn, felt 
26* 



306 



and reflected intensely upon those subjects ; and who will 
then himself have passed away to the experience of all that 
which is here matter of discussion. Those most dear to me 
will know what relations I sustained to these subjects, dur- 
ing the best part of my life ; and will not be without solicitude 
to know my final thoughts upon them ; thoughts, purified at 
least from all stain of party interest and espjit du corps, and 
put forth in the simple consciousness of my own convictions, 
however they may be powerless to produce belief in the mind 
of any other. With the fierce war cry of sects in religion, in 
their acrimonious and never ending contests about abstract 
terms without a meaning, their combats about the vague and 
technical phrases of formulas of faith, I have long since had 
nothing to do. For many years they have rung on my ear 
like the distant thunder of clouds that have passed by. To 
the denunciations of those, who assume to hold all truth im- 
prisoned in their articles of confession, if T might hope the 
distinction of receiving them, I am perfectly callous. Neith- 
ler would I desire to add another book to the millions of vol- 
umes of polemic theology which already exist, and which 
have as little bearing upon the knowledge, virtue and happi- 
ness of the age, as the last year's snow. 

We are, after all, unconsciously influenced, and that in no 
slight degree, by authority, however humble may be its 
claims, as a test of truth. How did such a person believe 
on such a point ? Many a young aspirant suspends his opin- 
ion, until he hears ; and settles into fixed persuasion after- 
wards. How many are there, in christian lands especially, 
who have never had a wandering or unbelieving doubt of 
the soul's immortality float over their minds ? How many, 
who have had no terrene and gross ideas, influenced by 
seeing the tenement of flesh, by which all that was call- 
ed the mind and the soul stood visible to the eye, and tangi- 
ble to the thought, yielded up to consumption and decay 1 
This is a question which no one can answer for another. For 
myself, I believe unhesitatingly, and with no stain of doubt^ 
that I shall, in some way, exactly provided for by Him who 



307 



made me, exist after death, as simply conscious, that I am the 
same person, as I am now in the morning, that I slept at 
night. Do I derive this conviction from books and reasonings ? 
I am by no means sure that I do ; though the gospel assured- 
ly speaks directly to my heart. I do ready homage to the 
talents and learning of Clarke, Locke, Paley, Channinganda 
cloud of reasoning witnesses, of whom every Christian may 
well be proud ; and, most of all, to the profound and admirable 
Butler. 

I hear the author of our faith directly declaring a resur- 
rection and immortality. A single asservation from such a 
source were enough. But I find him reasoning, and insist- 
ing less upon the fact, than I should have expected, had he in- 
tended to implant it in the mind, as it were a truth, chiefly to 
be apprehended by the understanding. It seems to me that 
he so discusses it, as one who was aware that it was already 
inwoven in the sentiments and hearts of his hearers, vague, 
dark, without moral consequence, it may be ; but an existing 
sentiment, taken for granted, upon which he might predicate 
his doctrines, as upon a thousand other facts, which we 
can clearly perceive, he considers already admitted by his 
hearers. 

Let a man walk in the fields on a June morning after night 
showers. Let him seat himself for meditation on the hill-side, 
under the grateful canopy of foliage. Let him ask himself to 
embody his conceptions of the divinity, and to give form^ and 
place to the Author of the glorious scene outstretched before 
him. He may have just risen from reading the admirable de- 
monstrations of Clarke, and the astronomical sermons of Chal- 
mers. He may concentrate his conceptions by a fixedness 
of study, that may amount to pain. He may bewilder 
his faculties, in attempting to embody something, that his 
thoughts and reasonings can grasp. I know not what the 
powers of others can achieve in this case. But I know, by 
painful experiment, what mine cannot. I ask my understand- 
ing and reasoning powers about this glorious Being. They 
inform me that it is a subject that comes not within their 



308 



purview. They can follow the chain of reasoning, see that 
every link is complete, and the demonstration irresistible. 
But when they wish to avail themselves of their new truth, 
they have no distinct idea either of premises or conclusion. 
It has evaporated in the analysis. 

I ask my heart, or the source of my moral sentiment, be 
it what it may, the same question. The grateful verdure, the 
matin freshness, the glad voices, the aroma of flowers, the 
earth, the rolling clouds, the sun, all the lamps, that will burn 
in the firmament by night, my o .vn happy consciousness in 
witnessing this impressive scene, cry out a God. To my 
heart, it is the first, the simplest, most obvious thought, pre- 
sentmg itself, it seems to me, as soon as the consciousness of 
my own existence ; certainly susceptible of as little doubt. I 
have no need to define, analyze, embody. The moment I at- 
tempt to do it, ray thoughts are vague and unsettled. I yield 
myself to the conviction. My heart swells with gratitude, 
confidence, love. So good, so beneficent a Being can do 
nothing but good, in this or any other world, to him who loves 
and trusts him, and strives to obey his laws. 

My most treasured hopes of immortality are from the same 
source. Will this conscious being, capable of such remote 
excursions into the two eternities between which its exist- 
ence is suspended, live beyond the present life ? Not a par- 
ticle of matter, for ought that appears, can be annihilated. 
Will the nobler thoughts, the warmer afifections perish, as 
though they had not been ? We ask our senses, and they can 
give us no hope. The body lives, and we speak of it as in- 
cluding the conscious being. We see it die, pass under the 
empire of corruption, molder, and incorporate with its kindred 
elements. The sensible evidence, that the person exists, is 
entirely destroyed. The most insatiate appetite of our na- 
tures, however, craves continued existence, and ceases not to 
seek for it. The inquirer after immortality cannot but be in 
earnest in this pursuit. The arguments of the venerable sa- 
ges of old are spread before him. From the soul's nature, 
from the unity of consciousness, the incorruptibility of thought, 



309 



the everlasting progress, of which our faculties are capable, 
the strong- and unquenchable desire of posthumous fame, the 
sacredness of earthly friendships, and similar arguments, they 
strove to establish, on the basis of reasoning, the conviction 
of immortality. 

From these reasonings he repairs to the Scriptures. A 
strange book, utterly unlike any writings that had appeared 
before, declares that we shall exist forever. The religion 
which has arisen from this book, in its whole structure and 
dispensation, is predicated on the assumed fact, that we shall 
exist forever in another life, happy or miserable, according to 
our deeds on earth. Jesus, the author and finisher of this faiths 
announces himself the resurrection and the life ; with a voice 
of power calls his dead friend from the tomb ; declares, that 
death has no power over himself ; that, after suffering a violent 
death, on the third day from that event, he shall arise from the 
dead. He arises, according to his promise ; and, in the midst 
of his awe-struck friends he visibly ascends to his own celes- 
tial sphere. Millions, as by one impulse, catch the spirit of 
this wonderful book — love each other with anew and single- 
hearted affection, as unlike the spirit of all former ties of 
kindness and love, as the doctrines of this religion are differ- 
ent from those of paganism. The new sect look with a care- 
less eye upon whatever is transitory ; and will submit to pri- 
vation, derision and torture, of whatever form, rather than 
waver, or equivocate, in declaring themselves subjects of this 
hope of immortality. This christian hope, in every period 
from the time of its author, has made its way to the heart of 
millions, who have laid themselves down on their last bed, and 
felt the approach of their last sleep, expecting, as confidently 
to open their eyes on an eternal morning, as the weary labor- 
er, at his evening rest, trusts that he shall see the brightness 
of the morrow's dawn. 

I recur, with new and unsated satisfaction, to these argu- 
ments for the soul's immortality. 1 love to evoke the vener- 
able shades of Socrates and Plato and Cicero, and hear them, 
each in his own way, persuade himself, that the thoughts and 



310 



affections, of which he was conscious, could only belong to an 
immortal spirit. I listen to the eloquent and impressive 
apostrophe of Tacitus, to the conscious spirit of him, whose 
life he had so charmingly delineated, with feelings which I 
cannot v/ell describe. 

' Si quis pioram manibus locus ; si, ut sapientibus placet, non 
cum corpore extinguuntur magnge animse, placide quiescas ; 
nosque, domum tuani, ab infirmo desiderio, et muliebribus la- 
mentis, ad contemplationem virtutum tuarum voces, quas ne- 
que lugeri, neque plangi fas est: admiratione te potius tem- 
poralibus laudibus, et, si natura suppeditet, similitudine de- 
coremus.''*^ 

I repair with new confidence and hope to the gospel, and 
strive to imbibe the cheering conviction, as I hear Paul sub- 
limely declare, that this corruptible shall put on incorruption, 
and this mortal immortality, and that death shall he swallowed 
up in victory. 

I have no disposition to deny that these arguments would be, 
in themselves, insufficient to turn the balance against the evi- 
dence of the senses, and produce the conviction of immortality 
from the deductions of simple reason, if religion were an 
impression to be raised and sustained by argument. But, if 
we are religious, in some form, from our very constitution, 
if immortality be felt as a sentiment, with more or less clear- 
ness and force, I deem that these arguments have their ap- 
propriate effect, in giving form and direction to this interior 
sentiment ; that believers have been such, because these 
doctrines have found a concurrent sympathy in their spirit, a 
suitableness to the wants of their heart, a development of the 
germ of their hopes. It seems to me, that whoever has a 
heart, cannot look upon the earth and the firmament, without 
exclaiming ' there is a God,' nor within himself, without a 
conviction, that his soul is immortal. 

I see in the enthusiasm, — the embraces, cries, tears, swoon- 
ings and the revolting extravagances of various sects under the 
influence of high religious excitement, nothiiig more than the 

* Tacit. Vit. Asricolse, ad ^n. 



311 



morbid development of this latent religious sentiment. In- 
stead of being, as =coffers affirm, subjects of a mere facti- 
tious intoxication, these people, who seem only to demand 
wings, to soar aloft, are only manifesting the unregulated 
action of nature working at the bottom of their hearts. 

For myself I feel that I am immortal, and that those fellow 
sojourners, to whom I have been attached by the affection of 
long intimacy, and the reception of many and great kindness- 
es, will exist with me hereafter. I pretend to conceive noth- 
ing, I wish to inquire nothing, about the mode, the place and 
circumstances. I should as soon think -of disturbing myself, 
by endeavoring to conceive the ideas that might be imparted 
by a sixth sense. It is sufficient that my heart declares, that a 
being who has seen this glorious world, cherished these warm 
affections, entertained these illimitable aspirations, felt these 
longings after immortality, indulged Hhese thoughts, that wan- 
der through eternity,'' cannot have been doomed by Him, who 
gave them, to have them quenched forever in annihilation. 
Even an illusion so glorious would be worth purchasing at the 
price of a world. I would affirm, even to repetition, that there is 
given us that high and stern power, which implies a courage 
superior to any conflict, and which gives the mind a complete 
ascendency over any danger, pain or torture, which belongs 
to life or death. But we v/ould not be so extravagant, as for 
a moment, to question that death, as the present generation 
have been trained, and as we are accustomed, by all we see, and 
hear to view it, is a formidable evil, fitly characterized by 
its dread name, the king of terrors. Many a debilitating in- 
terior misgiving will assail the stoutest mind, in certain mo- 
ments, in view of it. There are dark intervals by night, in 
the midnight hours of pain, periods between the empire of 
sleep and active reason, when the terrific and formless image 
rushes in its terror and indefiniteness upon the mind. As age 
steals upon us, and the vivid perceptions, and the bright dreams 
of youth disappear, many a dark shadow will cloud the sun- 
shine of the soul. The conflict, in which all these terrors are 



312 



overcome by unaided nature and reason is, as has been seen, 
a cruel one. The tender sensibilities, the keen affections, the 
dear and delusive hopes of our nature must all be crushed, 
before we can be unmoved in the endurance of the pain and 
torture that precede, and the death that follows. 

It is only to a firm and unhesitating faith, that it becomes 
as easy and natural to die, as to sleep. Glorious and bless- 
ed hope, the hope of meeting our friends, in the eternal land 
of those who truly and greatly live forever ! There we shall 
renew our youth, and mount as on the wings of eagles. 
' But we shall meet, but we shall meet, 
Where partingj tears shall cease to flow : 
And, when I think thereon, almost I long (o go ! ' 

Note 62, page 177. 

That is an unworthy opponent, who assails what assumes 
to be important truth, by no better argument than ridicule and 
sarcasm. That is a despicable one, unworthy of exciting any 
feelings but those of pity and contempt, who attempts to 
bring to bear upon it the blind and fierce prejudices of the mul- 
titude. This last is the prevalent mode of modern attack. 
By those, who deem that wisdom will die with them, and that 
they can learn nothing more, who dogmatize without examin- 
ing, and measure the views of others by their own precon- 
ceived and settled opinions, all the foregoing doctrines, which 
militate with the established prejudices and habits of the age, 
will be denounced, I am aware, as heretical, imaginary, false. 

He would teach people how to be happy,' say they with a 
sneer, ' as though they were not compelled to pursue happi- 
ness by a law of their natures.' My business is not with such 
opponents, and I should consider their opposition an honor 
and a distinction. 

The fact will remain true, be it welcomed, be it ridiculed, 
as it may, that a few, in all time, have found the means of be- 
ing more comfortable and happy, than others in the same cir- 
cumstances. They had a method of their own in creating 



313 



this difference. That method mii^ht be so indicated, as to be 
reduced to general, and settled rules. This is the amount of 
the foregoing doctrines. The object has been to discuss and 
fix some of those rules. No moralist was ever so stupid, as 
to expect, that the world would not pursue its headlong course, 
inculcate what he might. Every one, who understands the 
analogy of the present to the past, will expect that no form of 
virtuous effort will be screened from question and ridicule ; and 
that no purity of purpose will conquer the blind and fierce 
hate of the multitude. 

But there will still be a few quiet, reflecting and philosophic 
people. What is better, the number will be always increas- 
ing. For such, are these my labors, and those, which I have 
adopted from another, chiefly designed. Their suffrage is an 
ample reward. Their plaudit is true fame. If they say, ' we 
and those about us may be better and happier ; let us make 
the effort to become so,' my object is attained. 

To encourage us to shake off the superincumbent load of 
indifference, ridicule, and opposition, and to make efforts to 
extend virtue and happiness, it is a sublime reflection, that a 
thought may outlive an empire. Babylon and Thebes are, now, 
nowhere to be found ; but the moral lessons of the cotempora- 
ry wise and good, despised and disregarded, perhaps, in their 
day, have descended to us and are to be found everywhere. 
As the seminal principles of plants, borne through the wide 
spaces of the air by their downy wings, find at length a con- 
genial spot, in which to settle down, and vegetate, these seeds 
of virtue and happiness, floating down the current of time, are 
still arrested, from age to age, by some kindred mind, in which 
tliey germinate, and produce their golden fruit. No intel- 
lect can conjecture, in how many instances, and to what de- 
gree, every fit moral precept may have come between the rea- 
son and passions of some one, balancing^between the course 
of happiness and ruin, and may have inclined the scale in 
his favor. The consciousness of even an effort to achieve one 
such triumph is a sufficient satisfaction to a virtuous mind. 
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